What's Mine is Yours
by Vanita
Summary: Their relationship changes when Sherlock offers to support John financially. They will go to hell and back, with a few side trips on the way, before they finally admit the truth. Pre- and post-Reichenbach. Johnlock, but within canon. Rated T for language, mild violence, drug use, self-harm, adult themes. Mystery/Friendship/Angst/Romance/Humor/Family/Hurt/Comfort/Murder/Resolution
1. The Legacy of the Row with a Chip n' PIN

John Watson was having one of those days. Since his flatmate outright refused to do any of the more menial tasks in life, such as shopping, cleaning, cooking or anything he might find in the least bit mundane, all of those tasks fell to the doctor. Not that he minded going through the everyday routines that most people did in their lives - far from it. He usually welcomed acting as if he had a normal existence. There was something comforting in rubbing elbows with dotty old ladies at the supermarket as they examined the soup can labels and the sale prices. It made him feel that the world had some sense of normalcy in it, and he could still be a part of it.

On this particular day, however, he was less than thrilled to be doing the shopping. He had checked his bank account before he went into Tesco and found that he only had £239, which wasn't nearly as much as he had thought, and he realized, yet again, that all this running around with Sherlock was starting to reflect in his finances. He received a modest compensation from the military for his past service, and a meager sum for serving as a fill-in doctor at the surgery, but more often than not he spent his time traipsing behind Sherlock, running through alleys or mucking around in the countryside. His sudden and unexpected disappearances from work had not made him particularly reliable as an employee, nor had it helped him pad his bank account. He often relied on Sherlock to pay for cabs and dinners, which was usually fine if they were on a case. But it was beginning to wear on him. He was tired of having to depend so much on his flatmate.

So here he was, comparing prices along with the little old ladies, and he was acutely aware that he needed to actually count his pennies. With a sigh he carefully selected some easy and cheap necessities: soup, bread, cheese, tea, biscuits and perhaps a treat of some apples, but that was all that he dared to spend. He went to pay, wary of the chip and PIN machine as he approached the queue, and was grateful that his card was accepted and the process went smoothly.

By the time he returned back to the flat, he felt tired. Without a word to Sherlock, who was sitting in his usual chair reading, he unloaded and put away the groceries. He grabbed the newspaper off the table and sat down in his own chair to read. He opened the paper to page two. After reading the same story three times without retaining a single word, he sighed and put down the paper.

"I need to get a job."

Sherlock continued to read. "I thought you already had a job," he said without looking up from his book.

"No, I need a real job. One that I show up to. One that, you know, pays me money," he said, realizing he was being much more surly than he intended.

At that, Sherlock closed his book, set it in his lap and fixed John with a placid stare.

"Haven't we already had this discussion? It would interfere with the work," he said.

"Your work. It would interfere with your work," John corrected. "But your work doesn't pay my bills, Sherlock. It doesn't even pay your bills. I don't know where you get your money, but I'm not rich. I don't have family to depend on. I don't have much of anything to speak of..." he closed his mouth and rubbed his hand over his chin. "I just... I need to work. That's all there is to it."

Sherlock tipped his head slightly and squinted at the doctor. It's one of those looks that made John Watson particularly uncomfortable, like he was a specimen under a microscope. Unpleasant statements often came out of Sherlock's mouth when he looked at John that way. He braced himself for the argument.

To his surprise, however, Sherlock simply picked up his book and started reading again. After a moment he said, "You can use my card. Or I'll get us a second one."

"You mean... you'll lend me money? Because I don't need a loan. I need-"

"No, I mean we'll just use my account. You don't need a job."

John's mouth opened and he stared at Sherlock in confusion for a moment, but then his eyebrows came together and his lips pursed. He felt an unexpected anger rise inside him and he didn't know where it came from. But he was sure of one thing. This idea of Sherlock's was no good.

"No. I'm not taking your money, Sherlock," he shook his head hard from side to side. At that, Sherlock instantly became exasperated and dramatically snapped his book shut.

"Oh for God's sake, John, why not? What does it matter? I have more than enough. I can pay for the groceries and whatever other nonsense we spend money on and then you can continue to assist me on cases and everything will be settled." He fixed John with a stubborn glare.

John shook his head again. In Sherlock's bizarre view of the world, it made sense. He had money and John did not, so they should spend Sherlock's money. But a warning inside him blared that it was a dangerous idea, and besides, he was able to take care of himself and didn't need the charity. Of that he was certain.

"I don't want your money, Sherlock," he repeated and stood up. He walked to the door, grabbed his coat and without looking back said, "I'm going out." He fled down the stairs and out of flat onto the street.

For a long time John walked without paying attention to where he was going. He instinctively stayed off any busy streets with cameras and opted instead for alleys or less traveled side streets. He made a loose, wide circle around Baker Street, as he didn't really want to go far, he just wanted to think. How had his life come to this, to revolve so completely around Sherlock? Was there such a void inside him before they met that this one man could step in and fill everything? He stopped suddenly on the pavement as he realized the answer. Yes, Sherlock seemed to be the center of everything he did. Work. Sleep. Eat. It all centered on Sherlock.

"Fucking great," he mumbled as he continued walking, this time a little more slowly and with a firmer destination. He was going to have a pint.

As he walked into the pub, he realized again what it was he liked about being around other people - people other than Sherlock. In the supermarket or the pub, he could pretend that his life was his own, that he had choices, that he had control over what happened. If he wanted a beer, he would drink a beer. He didn't have to have the biting commentary, or the alternative of ignored silence. He wouldn't have to stop whatever he was doing and put everything on hold because Sherlock had some sudden, insane impulse. He could pretend that he was just a normal bloke at the pub watching a footy.

He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer, and when it came he drank down half in one long draught and then ordered another. As he tilted the glass back and finished it off, he could feel someone sweep behind him and sit on the stool to his left. He put down the glass and sighed. He didn't have to look up to know it was Sherlock.

"You're too proud," came the low, rumbling voice, and John took a deep breath and held it for a second before letting it out slowly.

Sherlock continued.

"I understand. You want to support yourself because there is some sort of masculine pride in it. But it's irrational. You know that I am right."

John turned his head and looked Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock looked puzzled and displeased that John wasn't simply going along with what he obviously thought was a brilliant solution to the problem.

"No, you don't understand."

Sherlock frowned. "All right, fine. Explain."

"Look, I... I know you want to help, and it's a kind offer, really, but I don't think it's a good idea." He looked at Sherlock with his head slightly lowered and his eyebrows raised with a "you know what I'm saying?" look.

Sherlock gave an exasperated groan as he turned away and then quickly turned back.

"You are not only proud, but a very stubborn man, John Watson. Don't be stupid. Hasn't it been you who has gone on about the value of friendship and how friends help us or some such nonsense, and now here I am, your friend, offering to help. So that we can continue working," he said, with an emphasis on "working" as if it were the only word important in the entire statement.

That was it. John had had enough of this.

"Yes. Right. Friends. Friends go out to a pub to watch football and drink a beer. Friends have each other over for dinner to talk about their work or their wives or whatever. But friends don't pay for all of your food, or your housing, or train tickets and inn accommodations and rental cars for some spontaneous far off adventure in the middle of nowhere. Maybe that's what family or a …" John searched for the right word "... a boyfriend would do, but you are neither. So what does that make me?"

He looked at Sherlock with desperation, and then as quickly as he arrived, Sherlock left without another word. John groaned and stuck his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Why is everything with that man so fucking difficult? He opened his eyes and noticed another full drink in front of him - it must have been set down while he was arguing with Sherlock. He didn't even notice. He took a long drink and ordered another.

* * *

Sherlock was thoroughly annoyed. He strode back to the flat, taking a shorter route than John would surely take because John doesn't seem to think these things through, and bounded up the stairs. Once inside he began to pace, puzzling through the new problem that seemed to have presented itself. Surely there must be some more information that John is not letting on. Perhaps he has debts that he is too embarrassed to admit? No, Sherlock would have known about them. There would have been emails or mysterious bank withdraws. Sherlock knew all about John's financial situation, of course, as he had watched the man's bank account bob up and down. When John's finances were low, without acknowledgement Sherlock would simply pay for everything, and so far it seemed that John did not notice that Sherlock was particularly magnanimous when John had no money. But on those occasions when John had a period of some steady work, or his military compensation had come in, he let John pick up take-away or pay for a cab. As much as he thought it ridiculous, he recognized that John needed to feel some sense of paying his own way in the relationship.

But it was utter nonsense. It was as if John were stubbornly clinging to this romantic notion that he could maintain some sort of a normal, boring life on the side. Nonsense. Sherlock had plenty of money. Most of it was mummy's, and whether he liked it or not, Mycroft never let his bank account get anywhere near empty, no matter how much money he spent. But what use did Sherlock have for money, anyway? He just wanted the work. Why didn't John understand that? If Sherlock could take care of all the expenses then they wouldn't have to have another conversation about it and John could accompany him on all of his cases without being distracted by the mundane elements of everyday living. Everyone's needs were met. It was an elegant solution.

Sherlock stopped pacing and sat down in front of John's laptop. He opened the old phone book sitting on the table where John less-than-cleverly tried to hide his convoluted passwords, and logged in. He began by looking at John's bank account, then perused his email, but when he did not find anything new or interesting, he began to get distracted by a cold case he'd been puzzling through and then all of the sudden he realized John was there. He looked at the clock on the computer. More than an hour had passed.

Sherlock sat up straight in the chair, and without turning around, strained all his senses towards the presence of his flatmate standing in the doorway. John stood still for a long time and then shuffled over to Sherlock and put out his hand.

"All right, then. The card," he said in a flat tone.

Sherlock reached for his wallet, took out his bank card and set it in John's hand. John slipped it into his pocket and walked over to his chair and slumped into it. John had not even reprimanded Sherlock for using his laptop. This was not good. Sherlock turned to observe.

The man looked defeated. John had circles under his eyes and he was vacantly staring in front of him, as if he were exhausted and perhaps bordering on despair. Sherlock found this deeply troubling. It was not how this was supposed to go.

"John, why is this so upsetting to you?" he said tentatively.

After a moment, John looked at Sherlock. His eyes were haunted.

"When I met you, Sherlock, I had three things, besides the clothes on my back. Three things. My cane, my laptop and my gun. I had nothing in my life when I returned from the war. But then I came here -" he waved his hand around the flat "- and you and your things are everywhere. Your books, your cases, your furniture and violin and fucking skull ... You have so much, and I have nothing."

John looked away, his eyes roaming the room, and Sherlock could feel a sinking in his chest. John's eyes rested again on Sherlock. "This is all I have, Sherlock. Everything I have is here. And it's not much."

Sherlock felt a pang of annoyance run through his body and - something else. Something he didn't quite identify. Something similar to what he felt when he left the bar. No, it's not that he couldn't identify it, it's that it scared him and he pushed it away. He stood up and walked over to the window to look out over the street. It was getting late, the sky was getting dark and there were fewer people about. His voice sounded bitter in his ears when he spoke.

"Is that such a bad thing?" he said quietly to the window. He realized he felt a distant panic rising inside him. He wanted a smoke. No, he wanted something stronger than a smoke. Something to help him focus.

"What you said in the pub. About family," Sherlock said and then hesitated before he continued. "You are my family, John. I don't have anyone else, not really. None of these physical possessions matters to me, including the money. I would gladly give it all to you. It means nothing to me."

Sherlock could feel his emotions begin to betray him. He finally realized its source: By offering John his money, he had opened himself up for rejection. He had put himself out as an offering, and what if John refused? Where would that leave him? It was a stupid risk, this was why he didn't get close to people, he cursed himself for the slip, he should have realized that John wouldn't accept him. Perhaps he could salvage the situation. His mind started to consider possible solutions.

But before he could think of how to take his offer back and make everything right again, he heard John stand up and walk over to him. Sherlock kept looking out the window, but John's close proximity stopped his mind from spinning. All he could focus on was the brush of John's jacket against his sleeve. Somewhere in his mind he noticed that his heart rate had increased.

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock, I really don't," John murmured beside him. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Then stop being a stupid git and let's move past this absurd argument so we can get on with our work," he said as he looked sternly at John. John smiled and then half laughed, and Sherlock could see the light returning to his eyes. A welling of something warm spilled over inside Sherlock's chest at the sight of John's smile and he couldn't help but smile back. John seemed similarly affected and he took in a breath then shook his head. John took Sherlock's hand and gently squeezed it.

"All right then," he said as he nodded, and then he blushed and looked away self consciously. He dropped Sherlock's hand. "Um, yeah. Ok. I'm tired. So I'm going to bed?"

Sherlock gave John a slight nod and watched as the doctor walked up the stairs, entered his room and closed his door. Sherlock gave out a triumphant whoop and leaped over to his violin case. He removed the instrument and the bow and started to play an Irish gig. Somewhere upstairs, he could feel John smiling.


	2. Sherlock's Puzzle

For the next few days, John felt this odd sense of lightheadedness. They didn't speak about the new financial arrangement, but something about Sherlock had changed. For one, he was unusually attentive. Not overly so, not so much that anyone else would notice, but to John it was unnerving. On the first morning, Sherlock made him tea without asking and throughout the morning insisted that his cup stayed full and warm. When they went out later, he helped John with his jacket and waited for him instead of disappearing out the door. Whenever John said something, Sherlock would stop what he was doing and raise his head to listen. But what made John stop and stare was when he would catch Sherlock smiling to himself - when walking on the street or reading the paper or looking out the window. Whenever John asked him what he was smiling about, however, Sherlock would quickly drop his face into an innocent blankness and ask, "Hmm?" and then change the subject.

It was disconcerting. Sherlock almost seemed... content. Maybe even happy. But surely not. That would just be too strange.

Oddly enough, when he thought about it, John realized that for the first time in a long while that he felt happy too. Something in the world had shifted, and he felt lighter, younger and like the future was bright and full of promise. At times he almost felt giddy. It was a strange feeling for him and he didn't trust it, because so much of his life in the past four years had been full of tension and pain and more than enough violence and death. Part of him knew that it wouldn't last, but he pushed that out of his mind and simply enjoyed the lightheadedness of the whole thing. Whatever it was that was going on, he tried not to think about it too much. He didn't want to ruin it by finding the flaws that must be there if he looked closely.

On the third day, they got a case. Lestrade texted that an Army colonel had been violently murdered and his wife was the prime suspect, but some things didn't add up. He was hoping they would assist with the investigation. John noticed that Lestrade had texted both of them with identical messages. He wondered when, exactly, they had become a single unit to the detective inspector. That slightly giddy feeling rushed through his chest again.

They arrived at the cottage on the outskirts of London 30 minutes later. Lestrade met them at the door and escorted them inside. A man was lying face down on the carpet of the study in a pool of blood, and it was evident that the door had been forced open from the outside.

"That's Colonel James Barclay of the British Army, based in Andover," Lestrade said. "He was found dead with his wife lying next to him unconscious, and next to them was a club of some sort which we are assuming at this point was the murder weapon. Mrs. Barclay didn't appear to be assaulted, however, and she has been taken to the hospital where she's being examined and is in custody as our primary suspect. The thing is, the serviceman who looked through the window and saw them lying in here had to break down the door because it had been locked from the inside, but the door could only be locked with a key and so far we haven't been able to find that key anywhere in the room. It's the only thing that doesn't seem to add up here."

John watched Sherlock as he walked over to the body and knelt down.

"That will be all, Lestrade," he said as he began to examine the colonel. Lestrade looked at John, who shrugged, and then the inspector sighed and left the room. John turned to watch Sherlock as he worked. It reminded him of the first time he watched his flatmate examine a body. John kept commenting about how amazing Sherlock was and Sherlock had asked him quietly if he realized he was talking out loud. But when John offered to shut up about it, Sherlock seemed to be pleased with the compliments. John smiled. Sherlock was so much like a child in many ways, looking for attention and praise from him at all times.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock said without looking up from the body. "It must be something pleasant since you're smiling."

"Oh... um, I was thinking about the first time I watched you examine a body," John said.

Sherlock looked up.

"And that's a pleasant memory, hmm?" he said with teasing eyes. "What happened to scolding me about not caring about dead people? Shouldn't you be showing more respect? I'm offended on behalf of the poor colonel here." He picked up the dead man's hand by the pinky and let it drop with a thud.

John looked away from Sherlock and tried not to laugh. He could feel the mirth rising in his chest and he knew that if he looked at Sherlock he would not be able to control it. After a few deep breaths, however, he assumed that Sherlock must have gone back to his investigating, so he ventured a glance. Unfortunately, Sherlock was still looking right at him and was biting his lips, and the instant their eyes met they both erupted with laughter. By the time Lestrade came back into the room, John had tears in his eyes and Sherlock had stood up to face away and try to control himself.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Lestrade yelled at the two of them. "This is not a bloody schoolyard. You two pull it together and take this seriously. A man is lying in a pool of his own blood for God's sake!"

John wiped his eyes, looked to Lestrade and apologized profusely. He took a deep breath and, refusing to look at Sherlock, promised that they would approach this with utmost professionalism. It would only take a few more minutes. Lestrade put his hands on his hips, obviously not convinced, but after Sherlock knelt down next to the corpse again, Lestrade left the room with a warning that he'd be back in five minutes.

John took another few breaths and then looked at his flatmate again. Sherlock seemed to have recovered from his chuckling but still had a lingering half smile on his face, similar to the one that had appeared spontaneously in the past few days. Something about it pulled at John, and the warm joy in his chest shifted a little deeper. He swallowed and walked over to Sherlock.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

Sherlock stood up and looked at him. Although the smile was almost gone from his lips, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were piercing, and it made John's breath catch. When Sherlock looked at him like that, like there was nothing else in the world but John and what he had to say, it made his head spin.

"Tell me what you think first," Sherlock said.

John had to force his eyes away and look at the body before he could think straight. But he let the sight of the blood on the rug ground him, and he took his first real look at the evidence. He tilted his head to the side and knelt down. He took in the entire body that lay face down and, after a cursory examination, focused on the head. The blood appeared to have come from an injury where the colonel was struck near the right temple. Upon closer look, however, the injury had a squarish shape, which was puzzling. John looked up at the desk that was nearby and then stood up to get a better look at how the body was positioned.

"The colonel appears to be in his mid-forties, and judging from his hands and how he's dressed and his generally manicured appearance I assume he has some administrative job at Army headquarters and had just come home from work. I would guess that even though he has a head wound and he's lost a lot of blood, he didn't necessarily die of it. I don't think the wound was caused by the club they found, either. I think he had either a brain aneurism or a heart attack, collapsed and hit his head on the corner of the desk. I'm not sure he was murdered at all."

John looked up at Sherlock and his heart stopped. Sherlock had not taken his eyes off John, but his expression had changed. His face was dark and intense as he studied John, and he realized that Sherlock was breathing faster than normal. Sherlock's face was a mix of unreadable emotions, and for a second the doctor wondered if he had said something wrong.

"Are you ok?" John asked. "Did I get it right?"

At that Sherlock seemed to waken and become self aware, and he quickly collected himself. He stood up a little straighter and put his hands in his pockets.

"That was... adequate," he said and then suddenly turned and walked out of the room without looking back. John sighed.

"Well, it was nice while it lasted," he mumbled as he followed Sherlock out the door. It seemed that as quickly as it had appeared, the spell from the last few days had broken and things were already returning back to normal.

* * *

Sherlock walked to Lestrade and asked if there were any witnesses. Lestrade eyed him suspiciously and then looked behind him to John, who was walking up. Sherlock felt annoyed that Lestrade seemed to always visually check in with John these days before proceeding with anything Sherlock asked, and he let out an impatient huff. Lestrade looked back to him, and although he seemed reluctant, he stated that the corporal who found the victim was still on site and in the other room. Sherlock's eyes followed where he indicated and he marched into the kitchen to find the corporal sitting at the table talking with a police officer.

Without introducing himself or acknowledging the officer, he laid into the man.

"What were you doing here, corporal?" Sherlock demanded.

The corporal looked to Lestrade, who nodded, and then answered.

"Colonel Barclay had requested that I pick him up for an event we were required to attend this evening," he said. "I had been waiting in the car, but when he didn't respond after I called him, I went looking for him."

"So you climbed through the window and murdered him, didn't you? And after you bludgeoned the man to death, you went around and broke down the door to make it look like it was someone else? Tell me, man! Admit it!" Sherlock yelled.

At that, the corporal stood up, furious.

"No, of course I didn't kill him! When no one answered the door I walked around back and saw him lying on the floor. His wife was lying there too. So I ran into the house and went to open the door of his study but it was locked. I didn't have time to do anything else so I broke it down. There was blood all around him and I thought they were both dead. I called the ambulance and then Mrs. Barclay started to wake up and I realized she was still alive so I took her outside. I didn't kill anyone!" the corporal yelled back.

Sherlock stood up straight, dropped the angry facade, thanked the man and left the room. He could hear Lestrade try to calm the corporal, who was still yelling as Sherlock walked out of the house. He went straight for the cab, which had been waiting outside, and got in. He had seen everything that he needed. He dug his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Lestrade.

_I will need to talk with the wife. Remove the curtains for evidence. SH_

He put the phone away and listened to the cab idling. He noticed that John had not yet gotten in. He looked out the window towards the house and saw Lestrade and John talking outside. Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, then said something to John. They both looked over to the cab.

Sherlock sat back and stared forward. The cabbie didn't bother to ask if he should wait for John. He just did. How annoying.

When John got in, the cab pulled out and started driving them back to their flat. The silence was oppressive and strained, and it filled the car all the way back into central London. Sherlock found that he had several impulses to say something, but stopped himself each time. When they were getting close to Baker Street, John finally spoke.

"So what happened back there?" John asked.

Sherlock wondered if he was deliberately being vague or if John didn't understand the multiple meanings of the question. He glanced at the doctor, who was looking out the window. John was disappointed in him. Again. He ignored the sinking in his chest and turned away.

"Of course he wasn't murdered. That much is obvious. The question is, who was the third person in the room with them when the colonel fell and hit his head?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John nod his head. He waited for the questions that always followed when Sherlock made a profound statement of conclusion: What person? How did you know there was a third person there? If you knew that he hadn't been murdered, then why did you yell at the corporal like that? Sherlock waited, but the questions from John didn't come. The cab pulled up in front of the flat, and John got out and went straight inside without waiting. Sherlock paid the cabbie and then followed John upstairs. He realized with dread that John probably hadn't been asking about the case. He was asking what had happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock entered the flat and saw John sitting at his computer. Sherlock quietly closed the door and hung up his coat. He went into the kitchen to put some water on, and then stood staring at the kettle. He knew he was acting like a child, but what did John expect. Sherlock always acted like a child, and it was John's job to scold him when he misbehaved and praise him when he was particularly brilliant. It was what they did, the natural order of things.

But something had changed in the natural order and they were now adrift in uncharted seas. In the past several days, Sherlock could not stop thinking about the feel of John's hand as it has squeezed his own a few nights earlier, and the way it made his heart flutter in his chest. It was like a puzzle and he couldn't seem to put the pieces together. Why would John have this effect on him?

_"__I consider myself married to my work."_ The words that he spoke to John when they first met appeared in his mind. Even back then, he could feel the compulsion to please John. He was uncomfortable rejecting him, but John had to know that everything in his world revolved around the work. It was the only way Sherlock could stay sane. Without the work, Sherlock was nothing.

He could not deny it, though. John had become his work. He no longer seemed interested in working unless John was there with him. In his mind, Sherlock had stepped to one side and made some room, and John had joined him. From the very beginning, they settled into a comfortable partnership as if they had been doing it for years. They quarreled and John was often maddeningly slow to catch on, of course, but he wasn't stupid, no matter how many times Sherlock declared it, and John was deeply loyal and steadfast. And most importantly, Sherlock was finding that without John, he had trouble thinking quite as clearly. It was as if John was an amplifier for his thoughts and everything worked better when they were together.

"Do you need help with that?" John asked from the kitchen doorway.

Sherlock realized he had removed the boiling water from the heat, and John was leaning against the doorway, watching Sherlock stare at the stove. Sherlock reached up and got two cups from the cupboard and made the tea. He handed one to John and then went to curl up in his chair in the living room. John sat down across from him and set his tea on the table.

"What's going on with you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock held the hot tea in his hands and breathed in the aromatic steam rising from the top. His mind was racing with thoughts, but none of them seemed the right thing to say. He still hadn't solved the puzzle, but he could feel himself getting closer.

John sighed and picked up his mug again. He took a small sip and then seemed to decide something.

"Look, I don't know exactly what is happening here, but whatever it is... everything is going to be fine," John said. "You don't have to worry about me or things changing or anything. It's all ok."

Sherlock looked up at John, and the words _"it's all fine"_ played through his head from that same conversation where Sherlock said he was married to his work. The puzzle suddenly became clear and he could feel his eyes widen in surprise. He realized that things were not at all fine. No, indeed. They had rounded a corner and were headed straight into imminent disaster.

Sherlock had fallen in love.


	3. A Dead Rat and Other Tantrums

"He is intolerable, really insufferable," John yelled at Mrs. Hudson. "Sorry. I am so sorry. I don't mean to raise my voice. I just … the man is going to... I just don't know why I put up with it sometimes."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head in sympathy and patted John's shoulder. Sherlock had been gone for two days now and John was in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen because he didn't know what else to do with himself. Sherlock had left without a single word about where he was going or what he was doing, and the only reason John didn't think the worst was because after he had threatened to have Greg Lestrade rouse all of Scotland Yard to go look for him, his flatmate had finally responded to his texts. But all Sherlock had bothered to write was "_Investigating. SH_" and then when John asked for how long, he said "_Not long._" John had called Lestrade anyway to ask if he had some ideas as to where Sherlock might have gone, but the detective inspector didn't have any answers. He was moving forward on the case of the dead colonel, and the wife had been released from the hospital and was being held in custody, but as far as Lestrade knew, Sherlock hadn't talked with her.

It was not as if Sherlock hadn't done something like this before. Every so often he would disappear for hours, and occasionally for a day or two, and it was usually fine. John was not the man's keeper, and Sherlock could come and go as he pleased, of course. But this time it very much bothered John. This time he felt that it was somehow his fault.

The day before he disappeared, John and Sherlock had had a serious row. Sherlock was being pigheaded and unusually caustic, alternating between ignoring John entirely and pointing out all his myriad shortcomings, and John had had enough. They had it out in a full-throated shouting match, including slammed doors and perhaps even a thrown knife, although John had already stomped off to bed by the time the throwing started. He had heard a loud "thunk" on his door and there did seem to be a knife hole there now - granted, it was high enough on the door that it would have flown over his head had he opened it, but still, it was entirely unacceptable. As he lay in bed that night, tossing about and punching his pillow down over and over again, he couldn't even remember what the argument was about. It just seemed that Sherlock wanted to fight. Hours later John finally got to sleep, but when he woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone.

"He'll be back soon, dear, I'm sure of it," Mrs. Hudson said to John as she gave him some more tea. "You know how he can be. Here, have a biscuit."

John grumbled his gratitude for her sympathy but then excused himself and stomped upstairs to the empty flat. He sat in his chair and stared across the room, listening to the silence. It was too quiet and too empty and the cottony silence stretched to fill the corners of the room. He found himself straining to hear cars pulling up outside or slamming doors that might indicate Sherlock had returned. But the outside noises were only of Baker Street as people moved on with their lives, oblivious of the drama upstairs in 221b.

The loud beep from his phone on the table made John jump. He reached down and looked at the phone. A message from Lestrade.

_Is he back?_

_No_, John texted back.

_That's too bad. We're no closer on this case, but the prosecutor's moving forward with a trial date for the wife. Still doesn't add up tho._

"Fucking Sherlock," John said out loud. "This isn't the time to throw a tantrum."

Not only did Sherlock leave John, but he left a case as well. It was so unlike him, and when John thought about it, this was more worrisome than everything else. Sherlock wouldn't eat or sleep for days when he was on a case, he was so focused. He would lie on the sofa, sustained by only nicotine patches and oxygen, and obsess over it until he had figured it out. What could possibly be so important that it would take him away from his work?

It couldn't be the fight. Sherlock is dramatic but he just isn't that sensitive. What if there is something else wrong? Or maybe he had already forgotten about the fight and he really is just following another lead in the investigation? Is John entirely over-reacting?

John shook his head and thought about the case. Sherlock had said that it "obviously" wasn't murder, but there had been another person in the room. He also texted something to Lestrade about the importance of the curtains. John looked at his phone and then texted Lestrade again.

_Would you mind if I went back to the scene and looked around?_

Then after he pushed send, he texted rapidly after, _I know I'm not him, but maybe I could help._

Send. Then another: _I'm going mad sitting around here doing nothing._

Send.

_And I'm pretty sure that the wife didn't do it. You're right that it doesn't add up._

As soon as he hit send again, his phone buzzed with a new text from Lestrade.

_Alright, calm down, Sherlock, I'll meet you there in an hour._

John stared at the phone. He re-read the words. Then another text appeared: _I know you're not Sherlock. Sorry. See you in an hour, John._

John sighed and looked across the room and out the window. It looked like a nice day outside. He couldn't care less. He grabbed his jacket and went downstairs to hail a cab.

A half-hour later he arrived at the cottage. He would have to wait for Lestrade before he could go back into the house, but he had decided that he would talk with some of the neighbors before the detective inspector got there anyway. He walked past the house, which had police tape across the door, and up to the neighbor's. He knocked, and a middle-aged woman answered. He introduced himself, and when he said he was working with the police to investigate the death of Colonel Barclay, she instantly invited him inside. She said her name was Susan Morrison and she was friends with Nancy Barclay.

"I heard that Nancy was suspected in all this, but I told the police that it couldn't possibly have involved her," said Miss Morrison, looking worried as they sat down in her living room. "I know that sometimes they argued, she and James, but what couple doesn't have a fight every now and then?"

John instantly thought of his quarrel with Sherlock, and he had this sudden impulse to say "we're not a couple" before he caught himself and shook his head in irritation. This was not helping.

"Miss Morrison, did you know that the police have Mrs. Barclay in custody and they are making arrangements to prosecute her to the full extent of the law? She is likely to face murder charges," John said.

"Oh!" Miss Morrison said as she held her hand to her mouth. "Murder? Oh, that can't be!"

"Unless you have something you can tell me that might help her," John said more gently.

At that, the woman dropped her eyes to the floor and started wringing her hands in her lap.

"Oh, I told Nancy I wouldn't say anything, but perhaps... maybe it will help," she said. "On the morning before... before he died, Nancy and I took a walk, as we often do when the weather is nice. But this day, we met an old man on the street, and Nancy seemed to recognize him. He was carrying a box and he didn't seem to be the pleasant type, but Nancy wanted to talk with him privately so I went on ahead and waited. When she came up, she was in a right state and she made me swear I wouldn't speak of it."

At that, the woman started weeping and John awkwardly patted her knee twice before sitting back.

"Do you have any idea who it was?" he asked.

"No, I haven't the slightest," Miss Morrison said.

"Would you be willing to give a statement to the police? The detective who is working this case is meeting me here in a few minutes, and I believe this is important information. Would you be willing to do that?"

She looked out the window with tears in her eyes, and then looked back to John. "Yes, if it might save Nancy then of course I will," she said. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. I'm so grateful you came and asked."

Even though he knew he had found a new lead and should feel excited or pleased, all he felt was a leaden emptiness in his gut. What did it matter what he found if he couldn't share it with Sherlock? After Lestrade arrived and went over to take an official statement from Miss Morrison, John pulled out his phone.

_The neighbor woman saw Nancy Barclay with an old man on the day of the colonel's death._

Send.

_You should be here._

Send.

The silence expanded.

* * *

Mycroft's car pulled up the long driveway to the Holmes manor after a two-hour drive from central London. Although there was no sign that the gravel road had been traveled recently, he did not let the absence of evidence dissuade him. The black car drove into the circular driveway and parked near the large front door set between a row of white columns. Mycroft got out of the car, pulled his keys out of an inner pocket and unlocked the front door.

The house seemed to be exactly the same as when he had last seen it. He walked into the parlor and then continued on to the library. White sheets covered everything, the arms of the furniture outstretched like ghosts waiting for their owner to return. Mummy always left for the Turkish coast in the spring, returning like clockwork on the first of May. Since this was April, Mycroft knew she would not be home. As he walked into the library, however, he noted that one of the sheets had been removed from a large leather chair in front of a marble chessboard.

"Hmmm..." he rumbled and his eyebrow shot up. He walked over to the chair opposite, removed the white sheet and sat down to study the board. After two days, Sherlock still had not taken his turn. Things were bad indeed.

He looked outside the glass double doors and surveyed the rolling hills of the estate. He could be anywhere. Might as well get comfortable.

By the time Sherlock appeared, it was nearly dark. He was barefoot and covered in mud, with his trousers rolled up and brown leaves tangled in his dark curls. Mycroft raised his eyes from his newspaper and laughed.

"I'm surprised you made it out of the brambles alive," he said. "You know how easily you get lost."

Sherlock snorted.

"I have not been lost at Brettcombe Manor since I was five years old, Mycroft," he sneered. He walked over and dropped something on to the carpet that looked and smelled like a very large, very dead rat caked in brown slime. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft furled his lips at the thing on the carpet. "Why must you be so disgusting. You will never be able to remove the stench. Are those maggots?"

"Just for you," Sherlock said. "A sign of my affection."

Sherlock walked over to his chair and flopped down, sprawling his legs and arms over the sides. He glared at Mycroft. Mycroft cooly stared back. After it became apparent that his brother was not going to answer his question, Sherlock leaned forward with his chin on his fingertips and studied the board.

"I suppose you've come to fetch me," he said after several silent minutes.

"The thought had occurred," Mycroft responded.

Sherlock continued to stare at the chessboard, although Mycroft could see that his thoughts were far away. For a second, he almost felt sorry for him. But only for a moment.

"You can't stay away from Baker Street forever," he continued. "The good doctor is beside himself."

Without moving anything but his eyes, Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and then back to the board.

"He'll be fine."

Mycroft laughed. "Of course he'll be fine. But it's not him I'm worried about," he said with a slight simper. Sherlock's face turned to steel.

"You are wasting your time, then. I am also perfectly fine."

"Of course you are. That's why you nearly tried to kill the man and then fled to mummy's estate. During the middle of a mystery, no less."

Sherlock began to look indignant, but then his face softened slightly. "I didn't try to kill him. If he had opened the door, the knife would have flown over his head. He's rather short you know."

He looked out the window and into the evening. The trees had turned into silhouettes against the indigo sky. It looked so peaceful, so different from the lights of the city. He hated it.

"I would never hurt John," he said.

"Yes, I know," Mycroft said softly. "At least not physically."

Sherlock looked back to Mycroft with irritation.

"I would not hurt him in any other way either. He's not a piece of china. He's stronger than you will ever know."

"Then stop being such a coward and go home, Sherlock. You are just stalling."

Sherlock flung himself out of his chair and started to pace. Muddy footprints began to cover the carpet.

"And what, exactly, am I supposed to do when I get there? 'Oh, hullo, John, I think I'm in love with you'? It's absolutely, unacceptably, ridiculously... absurd!" he shouted - and then immediately regretted it. He could feel his cheeks turn bright crimson. Mycroft will never let this go. Ever. In the eternal battle between the two brothers, this was a huge victory for Mycroft.

"Ah," Mycroft said, and Sherlock was surprised that it didn't sound victorious, but rather like a sigh. He looked at Mycroft and found a look of sympathy. "I see."

This was even worse.

"Arrrrhaa!" Sherlock yowled and then started angrily stripping off his clothing. Mycroft rolled his eyes and picked up the paper again as Sherlock took off his trousers and shirt and underclothes and piled them unceremoniously next to the dead rat. He then walked naked through the large kitchen to the shower near the back entrance and turned on the water. He quickly realized that the gas had not yet been turned on so there was no hot water. He stepped into the freezing stream and scrubbed off the dirt and stink as quickly as he could, gritting his teeth as the water hit his face and hair. Utterly unacceptable, the entire situation, untenable, unsustainable, it was just a foolish infatuation. He was above this, beyond it. He had no use for the sentimental. He was just going to have to delete it.

He turned off the water and quickly dried himself. He walked naked back through the house and into the library, where he wrapped himself in one of the sheets lying on the ground. Mycroft eyed him.

"Another sheet? Would you like me to fetch you some clothes? I'm sure there are some in mothballs upstairs."

Sherlock turned his nose to the air and huffed.

"Take me home."

"Of course," Mycroft smiled and stood up, setting the newspaper on the chair. He looked at the floor. "I'll get Anthea to clean up the rat, shall I?"


	4. Something of Yours

_If you don't mind, please come downstairs. I believe I have something of yours. Bring a clean set of clothes. MH_

John had barely finished reading Mycroft's text when he jumped off the sofa, rushed into Sherlock's room, grabbed a set of clothes and bounded down the stairs taking two at a time, leg be damned. When he reached the front door, however, he paused and collected himself, pushing aside the fluttering in his stomach and bracing himself for whatever condition Sherlock may be in. He opened the door. A familiar black car was at the curb, and as John approached, the back door opened and John stuck in his head. Mycroft was sitting closest, his face pinched as usual, and next to him was Sherlock, looking perfectly well and wrapped in a white sheet.

"Ah... Gone to visit the queen again I see," John said and couldn't help the small smile on his face.

Sherlock turned to glare at him, but when their eyes met, he turned away and his lips twitched. He held out his hand.

"Mycroft won't let me get out of the car unless I put on some clothes," he drawled.

"Yes, well, he can be very demanding," John said as he handed over the folded clothes. He stood up and started to close the door when Mycroft got out and shut it behind him. They stood outside looking into the shop windows below the flat. It was past 10 in the evening and the air was chilled.

"So. Where's he been then?" John asked as casually as he could.

"Oh, you know, collecting dead rats, ruining the carpet, terrorizing the countryside at Brettcombe Manor," Mycroft said, then looked at John. "The usual."

John met his bemused gaze.

"He went to your mother's house?" John asked. "Why?"

"That, my dear doctor, you will have to ask him yourself," he said as the car door opened and a fully clothed Sherlock stepped out.

"Oh! I forgot your shoes, sorry," John said and rushed to open the door to the flat.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, John. The man is one step up from a savage," Mycroft said and then got into the car, closed the door and drove off. Sherlock seemed to take a deep breath to steady himself and then walked past John and into the building.

John was jittery as he followed Sherlock up the stairs and into their flat. He really had no idea what to expect, and it seemed that all of the anger from the past few days had been replaced by this confused mixture of relief, joy and anxiety. As he closed the door and watched Sherlock fidget around the room, however, John's own nervous energy began to be replaced with concern over Sherlock. He watched his flatmate climb into his chair to sit on his heels, then immediately stand and walk over to adjust the skull on the mantle, then move to sit at his computer. But before he even turned it on, he stood again and reached for his violin. He was like a feral animal in a cage.

As Sherlock lifted the violin out of its case, John walked over and reached for the instrument.

"No, no, now stop. We should talk," he said, and Sherlock pulled away like a petulant child. John put his hands on his hips. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock slowly and deliberately sat in his chair, raised the violin to his ear and began plucking the strings. John watched him for half a minute and then sat down next to him. Sherlock continued to thumb random notes as he stared into the room with unfocused eyes.

"Sherlock, look at me, please," John said quietly. He hated the sound of pleading he heard in his voice, but he didn't know what else to do. He wasn't sure he could take another fight like the one they had two nights before, but he knew that if Sherlock continued to ignore him, that was likely where they would end up.

He watched as Sherlock lowered the violin to his lap and stared at it, continuing to avoid John's eyes. He was very still, but he seemed to struggle, as if he were about to say something and then changed his mind. Sherlock's lack of eye contact and apparent confusion with how to speak with John was so disconcerting that it made John suddenly fear for the worst. He moved to sit on the floor at Sherlock's feet so he could look up into his face.

"Are you alright? Is there something you need to tell me?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "Are you... ill?"

At that, Sherlock looked at John and blinked. Then the hint of a wry smirk appeared at the edge of his mouth.

"Nothing that will kill me. At least as far as I'm aware."

John let out a sigh of relief.

"Ok then. That's good. So... anything that you want to talk about then?"

Sherlock's smirk faded and he fixed John with an unreadable stare.

"Not particularly."

John nodded. "Ok, that's fine too. As long as you don't start throwing knives again, I'm ok with … whatever you do or don't want to talk about."

He took a strained breath and then continued unsteadily. "But just don't..."

John suddenly felt the turmoil from the past few days overwhelm him, and the tears began to well. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to steady himself.

"Just don't do that again. Don't disappear like that after we've argued. I had no idea where you'd gone or what had happened and I don't wa- …"

John's voice caught in his throat as he felt Sherlock's fingers push gently through his hair and come to rest lightly on the top of his head. Something inside John broke, and he tilted his head down into his hand to try to catch his breath. He could feel the wetness on his face.

"I don't know why, I just thought that something must be horribly wrong for you to drop a case and leave like that," John said as he wiped his eyes and started to raise his head. "It was so unlike you and..."

Sherlock dropped his hand down and cupped John's cheek. Sherlock's face was so full of concern and his touch was so gentle that all of the words in John's head disappeared. He had an overwhelming impulse to turn his head and kiss Sherlock's palm, but that nervous fluttering had returned and his heart beat so loudly that he couldn't think and he was struck dumb with confusion. All he could do was stare at Sherlock, mesmerized by the way his grey eyes searched John's face. But before he could recover enough to move or say another word, the warmth of Sherlock's hand was gone. Sherlock steepled his fingertips and studied John.

"Yes, the case," he murmured as he bounced his fingertips against his lips. "So you went to talk with the neighbour, did you? That was rather industrious."

John closed his mouth, which he realized had been hanging slightly open. He cleared his throat. He stood up and moved over to his own chair and stared at it for a moment before sitting down.

"I'm sorry, what?" The thinking had not yet returned, but his voice seemed to work. John rubbed his eyes as if waking from a dream.

"The neighbor. She saw someone," Sherlock said slowly. "You sent me a text about it."

"Right. Um... can this wait until tomorrow? I've had … a long and strange day and I think I need some sleep."

"Mmm..." Sherlock responded vaguely and then put his violin away and moved over to his laptop. This time, he turned it on and immediately began to do research. And just like that, Sherlock was back at work.

"All right then," John said as he watched Sherlock's skin glow blue from the screen. "Good night."

When there was no response, John climbed the stairs and went into his room and shut the door. He sat on his bed in a daze and tried to process the past 30 minutes. He didn't even know where to start. His skin still tingled from where Sherlock had dragged his thumb across his temple and his fingertips had brushed his ear. John reached up and touched his face where Sherlock's hand had been, then lied back on his bed, arms over his head, and tried to unravel the tangled thoughts in his head.

* * *

The moment John's door clicked shut, Sherlock's entire body released and a whoosh of air expelled from his lungs. He stretched his face and ran his fingers through his hair, and then he reached over and closed his computer. He walked to the small wooden box that held his nicotine patches, grabbed one and slapped it to his arm. He flopped onto the sofa, pressed his hands together under his chin and closed his eyes.

This needed thought.

_Fact: John Watson is helplessly obtuse. But that had been established previously._

_Speculation: Sherlock might also be … somewhat unaware when it came to complicated personal relationships, and there may be things that he had missed over the time he's known John. There's always something._

_Fact: When Sherlock left unexpectedly after their fight, John was concerned that a) it was because of something he had done, or b) there was something terribly wrong with Sherlock. Either way, John had shown a strong emotional response to Sherlock's disappearance and was so relieved when Sherlock returned and didn't appear to be dying that he broke down in tears._

_Speculation: They were tears of relief. Most likely. Difficult to know for certain without asking.  
_

_Fact: Once Sherlock realized John had a strong emotional response to his disappearance and subsequent return, a sudden thought occurred to him. This thought formed a theory, which then required an experiment. While John's proximity had an obvious effect on Sherlock's physiological and emotional state, perhaps Sherlock's proximity had a similar effect on John. When Sherlock had reached out to touch John's hair... John's very soft hair, which felt amazingly silken in his fingertips, almost feathery, he's not sure if he had ever felt John's hair before, even if he had imagined ..._

Focus.

… _When he reached out to touch John's hair, and then his face, John seemed to be so moved that he could not talk. His breathing became labored, the skin on his neck flushed, his blood pressure rose, and his pulse was elevated, as measured from Sherlock's thumb on John's superficial temporal artery. John's eyes dilated, his lips parted... Sherlock could see the whites of his teeth... and the pink of his tongue... which licked his lips and made them shine slightly..._

"Oh bloody hell..." Sherlock hissed as he reached for the box and grabbed patch number two and slapped it on.

_Speculation: Perhaps John had stopped talking because he had been too tired to carry on with the conversation. Unlikely. Perhaps he simply didn't have the desire to talk any more. Very unlikely, John always wanted to talk. Perhaps he was shocked and offended to have Sherlock touch him in that way. Worrisome, but John's physical response was not consistent with revulsion. It's true that Sherlock had never touched John like that before, nothing so intimate, so it certainly must have been a surprise ... if it hadn't been an experiment, obviously, Sherlock never would have done it. Touching John's hair and cheek and ear was highly irregular and inappropriate. He was just gathering data._

_Fact: Sherlock was self-delusional and a liar and would justify anything rather than admit to the bloody truth. Fine. He touched John because he wanted to know what it felt like. Because he couldn't help himself. Because he ... cared. And judging from the way John had sighed and momentarily closed his eyes and pressed his face into Sherlock's hand, and by the reaction that the rest of John's body had, which was obvious when he stood up..._

Sherlock groaned and smacked his head with his hand. Then did it again. Then reached over and grabbed a third patch. He was going to get through this if he had to stay up all night.

_Fact: They shared a flat, they shared their work, and now they shared their finances. They no longer bothered spending time with anyone else. They enjoyed each other's company, they ate together, they spent nearly all their time together, except when they were sleeping. They laughed and fought and made up and moved on. Sherlock could not get the man out of his mind and he did not want to. Deleting these hormonal and emotional responses to John's presence was obviously not an option._

_Fact: Based on the observational evidence, John seemed to be equally emotionally, intellectually and physically moved by Sherlock.  
_

_Conclusion: ..._

"Oh!" Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up straight on the couch.

John was in love with him.


	5. John's Brilliance

They were running through the streets. It was dark and the ground was slick with rain, and John was worried that his leg would give out and he would slip and go sprawling on the uneven pavement. Even though he was running as fast as he could, it was a huge struggle and he could not keep up with Sherlock no matter how hard he tried. He yelled Sherlock's name, trying to make the man slow down, but Sherlock disappeared around a corner and by the time John got there, he was gone. John kept running, looking down alleys and shouting Sherlock's name and becoming increasingly panicked. He reached a side street and stopped dead as a wave of horror overwhelmed him. He stumbled towards the body lying in the street and knelt down, turning the man over. His vision began to tunnel as he saw Sherlock's grey eyes stare unseeing out of a face covered in blood...

"Sherlock!" he yelled and opened his eyes. He was breathing hard and he had kicked off the covers and tangled himself in his sheets. He rolled over onto his back with a groan and willed his breathing to slow. This had become a common nightmare. Sometimes Sherlock was shot, sometimes he had been hit by a car, sometimes they were in London, sometimes in Afghanistan or elsewhere. But the result was always the same. Sherlock lay bleeding and dying and there was nothing John could do about it.

He heard a creak on the stairs. A shadow appeared in the ribbon of light under his door as someone climbed the steps and then sat down quietly. This had also become part of the pattern. Sherlock would come and keep vigil outside his door until the panic had passed.

John stretched and unwrapped himself from the damp sheets. He grabbed the blanket off the floor and put it back on his bed. He settled in and closed his eyes.

"I'm ok," he said just loud enough for Sherlock to hear through the door. After a moment, Sherlock stood and walked back down the steps. Soon thereafter John heard the light click off and Sherlock go to his bedroom and close the door.

It was going to take him awhile to get back to sleep - it always did. Over the years, his nightmares had changed, and they were not nearly as bad as they used to be, but they never really went away. While it seemed that Sherlock didn't sleep because he just didn't need to, John desperately wanted to sleep but often couldn't. He would lie in bed for hours hoping for sleep, and then after it finally came, he would awaken from a nightmare only to toss and turn again. His therapist insisted he take sleep medication, but he refused because it made him feel dull and bleary. Instead he just pretended that everything was ok and tried to shrug off the fatigue. Of course, Sherlock knew about the nightmares, but they never talked about it in more than one or two words through a closed door.

He tried to relax his mind and deepen his breathing, an exercise he had reluctantly learned in therapy, but just as he'd start to drift, the image of Sherlock's bloody face would appear unbidden and his body would jolt and his heart would race. After a few minutes of stops and starts, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached over to read the text.

_Did she say if the man had an animal, perhaps a cat or small dog?_

John leaned back and smiled. _What part of in the morning didn't you get?_

_It is the morning._

John looked at the clock. It was 4:23 a.m. He texted back.

_Have you been up all night?_

_Irrelevant._

_Sherlock, I should try to sleep. We'll talk about it when the sun comes up._

John put the phone back on the nightstand and pressed into his pillow. He closed his eyes and tried again to slow the thoughts in his head.

His phone buzzed. John sighed and reached for the phone.

_I did not intend to distress you when I left. I didn't realize it would bother you so much._

John ran his hand over his face and sighed again. It seemed that his breathing was half composed of sighs these days. _I know. Just remember that next time, ok? Now go to sleep._

John laid back, still clutching the phone, and felt a warmth spread through him. It wasn't often that Sherlock apologized. He let the warmth lull him. He yawned and closed his eyes and within a few minutes was back asleep.

By the time he woke again, it was just after 8:30. He rose, put on his dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He found that Sherlock was already awake, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table looking through the microscope. John shook his head.

"Really, do you never sleep?" he grumbled as he walked over to the stove to put on the water.

"Ah good. You're awake. Get yourself some tea and get dressed. We're going out."

"Where are we going?"

"Out," Sherlock said and gave John a devious smile then returned to his microscope. "I've been networking."

John chuckled as he watched his flatmate. It was nice to see Sherlock looking relaxed and in a good mood this morning. After the strangeness of the preceding evening, John was relieved that it appeared Sherlock had returned to normal - whatever that was. Even at the best of times it was difficult to predict Sherlock's mercurial emotional state, but their relationship had been such of a rollercoaster lately that John was hoping things would settle a bit. He needed things to settle. He proceeded to make his tea and then went to his room to dress.

A half-hour later they were in a cab headed in the direction of the colonel's cottage. When they got close, Sherlock told the cabbie to simply "drive around" for a few blocks, and after a few minutes he suddenly yelled "Stop!" and jumped out of the cab. John followed as Sherlock walked over to a homeless man sitting on the curb smoking. When the man saw Sherlock, he pulled out a cigarette and offered it to him. Sherlock looked hesitantly at John and then back to the man and shook his head. The man shrugged.

"What can I do for you, Mister Holmes," the man said and then smiled a toothless grin.

"Hiya, Sammy. I'm looking for a man - older, perhaps with a cane or a walking stick, who has a small animal of some sort. Does this sound familiar to you at all?"

"Ah, yeh, I heard you were lookin'. There's this one bloke who's sometimes around. A vet, in bad shape. But he's got a weasel or a… what are they called… ah I can't remember."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"Yeh, he stays close by, usually." Sammy stood up and tossed his head to the side to indicate that Sherlock should follow, and the three men started to walk. John and Sherlock were walking side by side behind Sammy, and at one point their hands brushed. John would not have thought anything of it, except that Sherlock glanced nervously at John and said "sorry." John squinted at Sherlock, puzzled, and then looked straight ahead again. Apparently things weren't exactly back to normal. He caught himself in another sigh.

The three of them ducked through a hole in a wooden fence and into an empty lot. It looked as if several people had small camps there, and Sammy looked around.

"He's usually here, but I don't see him," he said. "Maybe if you come back later. Or I can get you a message. His name's Henry Wood, by the way. You want me to keep an eye out for him?"

Sherlock nodded and then took a crisp £20 note out of his wallet, folded it in half and tucked it into Sammy's jacket. Sammy smiled and made a motion like he was tipping an imaginary hat, and Sherlock and John left back through the hole in the fence. Sherlock took out his phone and texted while they walked to the cab. When they got in, he told the cabbie to head back to their flat.

"So now what?" John asked.

"Now we wait."

"Oh this should be fun," John said, and then prepared for an intolerable afternoon.

* * *

Sherlock looked out the window of the cab. His mind was spinning like a flywheel, there was no stopping it, but the thoughts were unfocused and fractured. He felt he was doing well so far in maintaining a fairly calm exterior for John's sake, but he was unsure how long he would be able to keep it up. He felt that at any moment he would be bumped and the calm would unravel at John's feet. His cheek twitched and a small sound escaped his throat. John turned to look at him suspiciously.

"Ok, so explain this to me," John said, and Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes. "This case. What's with the animal?"

"Oh." Good. The case. Yes, he could talk about this. "What did you see in the room where the colonel died, besides the dead man, of course?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh good God, do we have to do this, Sherlock?" John groaned and put his head back. "Can't you just tell me all of the things I missed?"

"John, you need to look and see what is right in front of your eyes," Sherlock said with a snarl. John was now looking at him with naked frustration, and Sherlock met his gaze and held it with his own pointed look. After a moment, doubt started to enter John's face as he seemed to realize the double meaning in Sherlock's statement, but Sherlock didn't give him time to figure it out. Just as John opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock continued.

"Fine. I'll tell you what you saw. The first thing you noticed was the footprints on the front lawn that lead up to the window. There were two sets. One you assumed was made by the corporal who found the Barclays, and he obviously was telling the truth when he described his blind blundering through a possible murder scene. So you thought to yourself, 'Ah, there must have been a second person here who came up to the window.' That was your first clue.

"The second thing you noticed - or rather the second thing of importance because you noticed everything, of course - was that there were muddy footprints on the carpet inside the house. The third thing of importance was the scrape marks on the curtain below the bird cage in the office. Yes, the bird cage was so obvious it's not even worth mentioning, but the marks on the curtain seemed to indicate that some small animal had clawed on the curtains while in the room, trying to reach that tasty morsel in the cage.

"The rest was merely deduction, of course, so now you're looking for an old man who is missing a cane and has a small carnivore as a pet."

The car bumped along in silence as they passed people and houses and cars along the street. The outside world was like a colorless film playing in the background, otherworldly and separate. All that seemed real was in the car sitting next to him.

"Brilliant," John said, and Sherlock looked at him. John was smiling. "I'm utterly brilliant."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, yes you are," he said with a chuckle.

"It's a good thing you've got me along, then, isn't it? What would you do without me?"

Sherlock looked out the window.

"I'm not entirely sure," he said, and the car fell silent again.


	6. The Crooked Man

When the cab arrived at the flat, John got out but Sherlock didn't.

"I'm going to talk with Nancy Barclay," Sherlock said.

"Can I help?" John asked.

"No need. I don't expect it to take long. She claims she can't remember anything anyway."

John shut the door, suspecting that perhaps Sherlock was simply trying to get away from him, but he wasn't going to spend the energy banging his head against that wall. After he entered the flat, John sat at his computer to start a new blog entry. He tentatively called it "The Old Man and the Weasel," but he figured the title would change by the time the case wrapped up and he published the final post. He laid out the details that they knew so far and found himself smiling as he wrote. His standard practice was to put in his own notes and observations as the case went on and then revise and restructure until he had a particular narrative that he liked, so he was not particularly concerned about how his first draft turned out.

After writing for nearly an hour and a half, Sherlock appeared again and flopped down in his customary reclined position on the sofa. Apparently he was unable to get anything out of Mrs. Barclay but a whimpering "I can't remember" - this according to Sherlock, who gave a less-than-sympathetic impression of the poor woman.

"Did you yell at her?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

"I see. You were a prick, as usual. I think you should consider expanding your interrogation techniques, Sherlock."

John grumbled and then updated his blog with the new information. He then saved and re-read what he wrote. Despite himself, he found a smile growing on his face as he read, and he actually laughed out loud at their interactions with Lestrade and when Sherlock explained the evidence during their cab ride, which John had written almost word for word. This was going to be a good post. It was subdued as far as their usual cases went, but there was some humor in it.

"Having fun?" Sherlock asked.

He glanced at Sherlock and found him watching John pensively.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you won't approve and will find all kinds of things wrong, as usual, but yes, I'm enjoying myself," John said. "I'm excited to find out what happens next."

"Don't get your hopes up for a happy ending, John," Sherlock said. "They rarely end up that way."

"Of course there isn't a happy ending; a man died and left his wife to be charged with murder. But that doesn't mean that -"

"The charges were dropped," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The autopsy. He died of a massive heart attack. There was no murder."

"Sherlock! How long have you known this?"

"Since yesterday. Molly sent a text."

"Molly - and you are just now telling me about this?"

"Well it was hardly important. We both knew he hadn't been murdered. That wasn't what was interesting. What's interesting is what happened. That's why we need to talk with Harry Wood. He and Mrs. Barclay are the only two people who know what really happened, and Nancy isn't talking."

"So this is no longer a criminal investigation."

"No."

John sat back and glowered at his screen. He looked at his blog entry and wondered what the point was.

"There were still murder charges, and somebody died a bloody death. I'm sure you'll have something to write about," Sherlock said as he picked up a newspaper and started reading.

Yes, John could write about his flatmate's amazing lack of communication skills and what an all-around ass he was. That would make for fabulous reading, he was sure. He put his hands back on the keyboard to rework the post when Sherlock's phone chirped. Sherlock read the text and then popped up off the couch again.

"Ah they've found Henry! We're off again. Come along, John," and he flew down the stairs.

* * *

It had started to rain. The cab splashed puddles onto the pavement as they approached the empty lot. Sherlock told the cabbie they would probably be a while, and he and John got out of the car and entered through the hole in the fence. They caught Sammy's eye and skirted the puddles to head in his direction, but Sammy simply nodded to a corner encampment and then put his head down and continued smoking his cigarette. Sherlock and John veered towards a make-shift tent in the back.

A large tarp had been strung between the fence and a few posts, and Sherlock noted that the knots had been tied expertly. He quickly scanned the environment. Small fire pit with wood, a grill, some cooking utensils and a large knife, Army issue sleeping bag, a few clothes hanging under the tarp. No signs of alcohol. No trash or smell of urine. Clean. There was a fairly strong animal smell, however, and next to the sleeping bag was a small box. The nose of a Mustela putorius furo was sticking out - the common ferret. The animal seemed content to stay in its box, but he watched the visitors with small black eyes. After examining the site, Sherlock then turned to study Henry Wood, sitting on a box near the fire. The sight was difficult to look at, even for Sherlock. He could see why Susan Morrison could mistake Henry Wood as an old man, but he wasn't old. He was simply ruined.

Several missing fingers and a missing left foot. A tattered artificial limb that did not fit well and was currently set aside. Acid scars on his face. Sandy chin length hair. Blindness in one eye. Stooped from some sort of hidden injury. Eyes wary as they studied his visitors. Yes, the eyes held a look that he had seen before on a more familiar face. Sherlock glanced at John, and John was standing rigidly upright and staring at the man with a tight face. Sherlock could see the horror in his eyes and he looked back at Henry to try to imagine what John saw. It made his breath catch.

John was looking at the war. And more than that. John was looking at what he might have become.

Henry and John studied each other, and a look of recognition came over Henry's face. He nodded.

"Are you from the military?" he asked John in a gruff voice.

"No, sir... I was a medical officer, but I've been out for two years now," John said. "Afghanistan."

"Iraq," Henry said simply.

John nodded. "Would it be alright if we sat down?"

Henry looked around the campsite and shrugged. "Not much to sit on. I don't get many visitors."

John walked over and sat on the ground, and Sherlock joined him. They sat there for a while, Sherlock watching the silent conversation between John and Henry as they communicated in some unspoken language. He had this unexpected rush of protectiveness wash over him, like he needed to get John out of this place and back to the flat as quickly as possible, and he instinctively reached over and touched his arm. John tightened his lips momentarily and then said to Henry, "My name's John Watson and this is my partner, Sherlock Holmes. I'm really sorry to disturb you, but we have a few questions about a man who died near here in his home. Do you know Mr. and Mrs. James Barclay?"

At that, Henry looked at the small fire and poked at it with a stick. He didn't seem too surprised that they asked the question.

"So are you here to arrest me?"

For the first time, Sherlock spoke.

"No. We were helping with the investigation, but it turns out Mr. Barclay had a heart attack and died instantly. Mrs. Barclay was first charged with murder, but charges were dropped after the autopsy."

Henry looked out over the empty lot and grimaced. "Is Nancy ok?"

Interesting. "Mrs. Barclay is recovering after she passed out. She says she can't remember what happened - but I think you were there. I think you were in the room when it happened, and you panicked and fled."

Henry looked thoughtfully into the fire again. He silently stirred the coals.

"Henry, what happened?" John asked quietly.

Henry looked up at John and seemed to make a decision.

"Yes, I knew James and Nancy Barclay. I've known them for many years. I served with James in Iraq." He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said with a gravely voice, "And I used to know to Nancy."

"But you had not seen her for a long time," Sherlock said, knowing the answer. The pieces were coming together.

"No. I hadn't seen her since... well, since the war."

"I can imagine she was shocked when she saw you like this."

John gave Sherlock a sharp look, but Sherlock wanted to get the answers and he wasn't going to find out by dancing around.

"Yes, you could say she was shocked. She didn't know I was back, or even alive. James had told her I had died in Iraq, and I knew she thought I was dead. I was actually ok with that. I didn't want her to know what had really happened or what I was like now."

"What do you mean, what had really happened?" John asked.

Henry fixed John with a hard stare. "Her husband nearly got me killed," he said bitterly. "Sometimes I wish he had succeeded."

John seemed greatly disturbed by this statement and shook his head. "Things happen, Henry, you know that. It's no one's fault."

"Oh, no, I know this was his fault," Henry spat out with sudden vitrol. "James Barclay sent me in knowing it was an ambush, knowing I would probably get killed. What he didn't know was that I would get captured and tortured and escape with barely my life. If he'd known that, he would have probably just shot me himself to get it over with. But he thought he was sending me in there to die, and he did it because once upon a time his wife was in love with me and he couldn't stand to have any competition. He wanted me eliminated."

With that, Henry Wood grabbed the knife that was lying next to him and stabbed it into the ground with all the anger and frustration of a man who had lost everything. The ferret came out of its box and climbed into Henry's lap and started to nibble at his fingers. Henry seemed to be calmed by the animal, and his hand rubbed its fur absentmindedly and he sighed.

"It doesn't matter. James is dead, I'm out here living in a field and whatever Nancy and I had was over long ago. It was a mistake to try to talk with her that day, and then to follow her home. But I was just so angry. I wanted James to know that he had lost, he had lied to his wife and now she knew the truth. I saw them arguing in the house and I was afraid he was going to hurt her. I wasn't thinking straight and I climbed through the big window. When James saw me, though... he yelled and then he just went stiff and fell. He hit his head and there was blood everywhere, and then Nancy collapsed and I didn't know what to do. I thought I would open the door and call for help but it was locked, and by the time I found the key I figured out that it didn't look good, this whole situation. So I ran."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a door key and looked at it. "I forgot to leave the key," he said. He looked at John and Sherlock and extended his hand to them. "Tell her I'm sorry."

John took the key and stared at it. He folded his fingers and clutched it in his hand and then looked back at Henry.

"You know, everything that happened over there - " he started to say then stopped. He looked as if he didn't know how to finish that statement, but Sherlock could tell by the looks on their faces that John didn't need to. Their eyes told each other everything they needed to say.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wood," Sherlock said as he stood and John joined him. "This has been very enlightening."

Henry looked at Sherlock and looked puzzled. "Why did you come out here to talk with me if you knew that he died of a heart attack?"

John gave Sherlock a withering look and then looked back to Henry and smiled apologetically. "Because my friend Sherlock here just can't stand to go without knowing."

Henry gave a small smile as he looked back and forth between two men. Sherlock could see a glimpse of the man he used to be before hell descended on him. "You're lucky to have each other," Henry said. "Hold on to that."

Sherlock didn't look at John, but he was surprised when the usual denial didn't come from his lips. Instead, John reached out to shake Henry's hand. Henry gave a small salute and then accepted it. With that, John turned around and walked away, and Sherlock followed.

* * *

John walked unseeing back to the cab. Everything was white around his peripheral vision, and he felt nauseous. Someone stepped out from behind a car and he jumped. He could feel his heart racing. Sherlock grabbed John's elbow and guided him to the cab. Once inside, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and held it tightly as John stared at the back of the seat in front of him. He swallowed. He hoped he wouldn't be sick.

Eventually, John sunk down into the seat and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the feel of Sherlock's strong hand clutching his, and it steadied him. They didn't talk all the way back to the flat. He couldn't wait to get back inside where it was dark and safe and they could close the curtains. He was starting to shake.

He felt the cab pull up, and Sherlock pulled him out of the car and wrapped his arm around his shoulders to quickly bring him to the door. They walked upstairs, and Sherlock deposited him on the sofa.

"Are you going to be ok here for a minute?"

John could feel the panic rising again.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"Just to get you your nightclothes and robe."

John met Sherlock's eyes and saw the calm determination there. He nodded and then sat unmoving until Sherlock returned. Sherlock helped him out of his jacket and started to help him get undressed when John stopped him.

"I'm... uh... I'm going to use the bathroom and get changed," he said. "Please..." his voice trailed off.

"I'll stay right here," Sherlock said.

John went into the bathroom and closed the door. He walked to the sink and turned on the cold water, letting it run through his fingers. He avoided the mirror, not wanting to see the look that he knew was there, not wanting to acknowledge what was happening. Not wanting to be him in that moment. He took off his clothes and splashed cold water on his face. It helped. He put on his night clothes and his robe and walked back into the living room.

Sherlock was in the kitchen making tea. John went to the sofa again and curled up in one of the corners, making his body as small as possible. Sherlock brought in a tray with some tea and sliced apples and set it down, then walked over to the television to turn it on with the sound very low. He came over to sit next to John, took off his shoes and socks, and stretched his long legs over the side table. He took a sip of tea and then grabbed a book and started reading.

John had this overwhelming feeling of relief. He realized he had started to get anxious that Sherlock would want to talk and ask questions, but Sherlock didn't. He could feel the tears rise up. He put his head back, eyes closed, and tried to steady his breathing. He felt Sherlock wrap three long fingers around one of his tucked-up ankles and pinch the back of his heel gently, and it anchored him.

They spent the rest of the evening in silence, watching telly or reading. Every once in a while Sherlock would go to the kitchen to get another nibble for them to eat or to put on some more water, but he always returned, picked up his book with one hand and wrapped his other around John's foot. Eventually, John started to doze fitfully, but whenever he would get very far into sleep, an image would flash and jolt him awake again.

"Come with me," Sherlock said eventually. He led John by the hand to Sherlock's room and pulled him down into the bed. He tucked a cover around him and laid down behind him.

"See if you can sleep," he said. "I'll be here."

John breathed in the scent of Sherlock on the pillow and closed his eyes. Sherlock brushed his hand over John's hair and then rested it on his waist, tucked up a little under John's arm. After a few minutes, John fell into a deep sleep.


	7. The Nightmare

John woke the next morning with warm breath against his ear. Faint bluish daylight fell through the open door of Sherlock's room. A long leg was draped over John's thigh and an arm was curled around his chest. Sherlock was sleeping soundly behind him, lying on top of the covers in his night clothes, and John realized that for the first time in months he did not remember waking during the night. He closed his eyes again and listened to Sherlock's breathing. He could not bear to wake him or even move, and John lay like that for a long time. The panic from the previous day felt like an old bruise somewhere in his mind, but he stayed away from it. He absorbed the warmth emanating from Sherlock instead.

Eventually Sherlock took a deep breath and then cleared his throat. He raised his head and seemed to look about, then plopped it down again on the pillow.

"Mmm morning," he said, and John could feel the low rumble of Sherlock's chest. It felt like home.

"Good morning," John answered. They continued to lie still, listening to the sounds of their breathing and the distant noises of the city outside. It was such a delicate and rare peace, one that would soon be broken by the noise of the outside world and the usual chaos of their lives. But for now, the waters were blissfully calm. John let it fill every corner of his being.

After a time, Sherlock pulled his hand away, turned over onto his back and stretched. John followed and studied Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed and he looked so relaxed he could still be sleeping.

John realized he didn't want them to talk about this. Didn't want to analyze. Somehow he felt instinctually that they should not overthink the fact that John had spent the night in Sherlock's bed.

"So," John said. "What's the plan for today?"

"A case, of course," Sherlock said without opening his eyes. "I started my analysis last night while you were asleep."

"You got up?"

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and looked at him.

"I didn't go far," Sherlock said.

"What's this one about then?"

Sherlock smiled, kissed John lightly on the forehead, jumped out of bed and left the room. John looked up at the ceiling and sighed. He could get used to this.

John took a long hot shower, put on his dressing gown and walked into the kitchen, still drying his hair with a towel. Sherlock was dressed and already working at his microscope. As John picked up the paper, he heard a phone chirp.

"That's your phone," he said.

"Yes, it keeps doing that," Sherlock said without looking up.

John walked into the living room, past a mannequin hanging from the ceiling.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" he asked while thumbing through the paper.

"Oh, Henry Fishguard never committed suicide. The Bow Street runners got it all wrong," Sherlock said and then snapped shut the book he was looking at, sending dust billowing around the table. "They missed everything."

"Pressing case, then?"

"They're all pressing until their solved."

Sherlock's phone beeped again. "I'll get it, shall I?" John said then picked up the phone and read the message. And without warning, the world suddenly crashed to a halt and dread filled his body like molten iron. He walked over to Sherlock to hand him the phone.

"Here."

"Not now, I'm busy."

"Sherlock..."

"Not now!"

"He's back," John said and gave Sherlock the phone.

_Come and play._

_Tower Hill._

_Jim Moriarty x._

* * *

Sherlock is falling. His arms are flailing around him and his jacket flies out like black wings. But he is not flying, he is falling, falling too fast, falling towards the pavement. He disappears behind a building. John hears ringing in his ears and everything slows. Somehow he's sprawled on the street, trying to stand up. He stumbles towards a small crowd that has formed, he is calling Sherlock's name, he breaks through the people, "I'm his friend," John says, "I'm his friend." There is Sherlock, lying on the ground, face covered with blood, eyes staring without seeing. John feels for a pulse and there is none. "Oh Jesus no, God no..."

This time John does not wake up.


	8. Deadlines Missed

It's empty in the valley of your heart  
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk  
Away from all the fears  
And all the faults you've left behind

- The Cave by Mumford & Sons

* * *

For a fleeting moment, right at the horizon of sleep, John felt wrapped in a warm mantle of hope. The feeling glowed peach-colored in his mind, the vague and unfocused possibility that today might be that one magic day. The day that the illusion was shattered and all was put right again. The day John got his life back. The day that he returned. But as John slowly woke and his awareness became sharper - the sound of a car passing on the street, the feeling of his cheek on the pillow - the warm glow faded to a crystal blue. The colour of daylight. The hardness of truth.

Today was the last day. It was over.

John rose. He walked to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, shaved, got into the shower. He ran his hands over the scars on his arms, pressing lightly on the new pink skin then forcing his fingers away and clenching his jaw. He closed his eyes as he put his face into the water, letting it run like cascading tears down his cheeks, and then opened his mouth to let it fill with the clean, clear water. It might be a very long time before he was able to enjoy this luxury again. It seemed appropriate.

He stepped out of the shower, dried, dressed, put his toiletries away. Without looking back, he grabbed his luggage and left the room.

As he stepped outside the hotel, he stopped and sighed. A familiar black car was waiting at the curb. He nodded. He should have expected it. John watched it warily for a few moments until a man stepped out of the front, went to the boot and opened it, looking at him expectantly. John walked over and handed the man his luggage and then got into the back seat. The car started to move.

"Thank you," John said to Mycroft without looking at him.

"It's the least I can do," Mycroft answered.

They drove for a few blocks, and then Mycroft said, "Sudan, is it? How very exotic."

Silence.

"How long will you be gone?"

"A year. Maybe more. I'm not sure. You can always come and visit me, Mycroft. I'm sure MSF could find you something to do," John said, then finally looked at the man sharing the backseat. Mycroft returned the look with steady eyes.

"A kind offer, I'm sure," Mycroft said with a half smile. John felt himself return the smile at the thought of Mycroft in a refugee camp in Africa, but the smile felt like betrayal. He let it fade. John turned back to the window and watched as the trees passed. He hadn't left the country since his return from Afghanistan, and he knew he should probably feel something. It seemed he should feel excited or anxious or sad. But he didn't. He felt nothing.

"Malaria," Mycroft said.

"Yes," John responded.

"Snakes and scorpions."

"Yes."

"And spiders."

"Yes. I didn't know you were so squeamish, Mycroft, really."

"Homosexuality is punishable by death."

John looked at Mycroft. "I don't think that's something I'm going to have to worry about," he said flatly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I'm only pointing out that the place sounds delightful. Please send photos."

John ignored him and turned away again. They traveled the rest of the way to Gatwick Airport in silence. As they pulled up in front of the terminal, however, Mycroft reached inside his jacket, brought out an envelope and handed it to John. John hesitated and then looked inside. It was a phone with a charger.

"Since you so efficiently and foolishly disposed of your previous phone, I thought you might need a new one," Mycroft said. "I want you to keep this with you at all times. It's a satellite phone and will work anywhere. You call the number on the back and we'll get you out from wherever you are within 24 hours. Mountain top or jungle, John."

John looked at the strange black phone and then quickly turned his head away as an old, familiar pain threatened to overwhelm him. He did not deserve generosity, and he never understood why Mycroft insisted on such behaviour. The man had refused to take back the bank card, and when John had tried to leave it behind, it showed up again addressed to him at Greg Lestrade's house. John reluctantly used it from time to time, however, and was grateful to have it, and he realised when he was packing for Sudan that it was the only thing he still had from before. Everything else had been left behind.

John took three quick, shallow breaths and the tightening in his throat started to ease. He nodded at the window.

"I don't know why you do these things for me, Mycroft, but... thank you," he said.

"John..." Mycroft's voice sounded strained, and John couldn't bear to look at his face and see the pain hidden below the surface. John had forgiven Mycroft for whatever he might have done, but he knew Mycroft had not. Taking care of John seemed to be some sort of penance, and John was willing to allow him that. He simply didn't have the strength to refuse.

After a few moments, the soldier inside John returned and he faced Mycroft one last time.

"It's OK," he said and his voice sounded grey and steady. "I'll be fine."

Mycroft gave an ironic laugh. "Of course you will, John. You're heading back to war, after all."

John opened the door.

"I have no where else to go."

He got out of the car, grabbed his luggage and left London.

* * *

Mycroft watched John walk into the terminal until he disappeared. He sincerely hoped the man would be careful and would return in one piece. God help us all if he doesn't. He pulled out his phone and texted Anthea, and then told the driver to head back into the city. He supposed it would be another short day at the office for him.

Simply trying to keep both John and Sherlock alive seemed like a full-time occupation.

Anthea's return text was almost immediate. Sherlock was last seen an hour ago sneaking aboard a docked container ship at the port. Mycroft grimaced in annoyance and directed the driver where to go. They pulled alongside the towering orange cargo ship and waited for almost a full hour before Mycroft saw a man climb over the rail and slide down one of the huge lines that held the ship to the dock. The man started to jog, looking behind him to see if anyone was following, and when he spotted Mycroft's car, he veered over and hopped into the back seat.

"I suggest we drive away now. Quickly," Sherlock said as he removed his leather gloves and pushed back his hood.

Mycroft huffed and then indicated to the driver, and the car quickly looped around and returned the way it had come. Mycroft turned to study his brother, who had pulled his phone out of his pocket and was rapidly typing with his thumb. Sherlock looked quite out of his element in this latest "disguise" - a grey hoody with black jeans and black shoes, the short blond hair trying to form small ringlets on his head. He looked ridiculous, of course, but different enough from himself that he would not be recognized or even noticed on the street.

Sherlock finished typing and returned his phone to his pocket. He glanced at Mycroft, and for a moment, a look of uncertainty softened the fierce determination on his face. He looked away.

"So you saw him off then," Sherlock said.

"Of course."

"And he took the phone."

"Yes."

"Good," Sherlock said softly to himself and then gave an almost imperceptible sigh.

"Of course, there's no guarantee that he'll use it," Mycroft cautioned, and then immediately regretted it. He could see the irritation rise in Sherlock's body. The man was on a hair trigger these days.

"If you had allowed me to put a tracking chip into the phone then at least we would know where he is," Sherlock snapped.

"That was not an acceptable option, Sherlock. Even for me. The man has the right to go where he wants without you spying on him."

At that, Sherlock gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, that is precious coming from you, Mycroft. You have never had such scruples about anything or anyone in your life, especially John."

He started to snarl. "You are just trying to torment me. You're punishing me."

Sherlock's face started to look vicious and his eyes had a wild quality that did not bode well. Mycroft had seen that look before on Sherlock's face, as if something was loose and rattling around inside his head. It was not a good sign.

"I'm trying to keep you focused," Mycroft said firmly. "If we're going to unravel Moriarty's web, your mind needs to be here. You need to be working."

But Sherlock did not seem to hear him. He was convulsively running his front knuckles back and forth over his lips with one hand and tapping his fingers on his knee with the other. Mycroft could see the steam building up pressure in his body. Suddenly Sherlock slammed his fist into the window.

"I can't think!" he yelled. "Stop the car. I need to walk. Stop the car!"

The car stopped and Sherlock got out and slammed the door. Mycroft closed his eyes and folded his fingers together, resting them to his lips. Perhaps he had made a mistake. He knew that allowing John to leave the country was not going to be good for Sherlock's already delicate state of mind, but perhaps it was even worse than he had thought. The irony, however, was that he had no choice but to let John leave. Despite Sherlock's determined efforts to hunt down the assassin assigned to John, and the fact that John was flying off to work in a horrific war zone, he wasn't sure John would have survived much longer in London. Not like this, not like he had been. Not alone. The man was broken, and it was not lost on Mycroft that this day was exactly six months since Sherlock had jumped off the top of the hospital. He sensed that in John's mind, this had been a deadline of some sort. He suspected that Sherlock was also aware of the significance of this date and that somehow he had failed to meet that deadline.

A sense of dread descended, and he had a feeling things were going to get much worse before they got better. Mycroft was going to have to keep a closer eye on his brother.

* * *

_Author's note: Thanks to all the follows, favorites and reviews, especially to Artful Dabbler and Warm-Glow for their encouraging PMs, and for Jeffo for his insights to all things British. Feedback is sweet nectar to a writer. Please follow/favorite/review if you think others will also enjoy the story. Cheers._


	9. Warzones

John had been staring at his computer without moving for nearly 40 minutes when Mary walked into their tent. He had been struggling with updating his medical journal, and he had got as far as writing about the children but then stopped.

"_The children are dying at more than twice the rate internationally recognised as an emergency. About four children under the age of five die here every day."_

Now he sat, staring at his screen with his head in his hand. The children who had come into the camp just the day before had been walking for seven hours and were in very bad shape. John was exhausted from working for 16 hours that day trying to address the most severely dehydrated, but the work was endless. There were too many people who needed help and not enough doctors. People were living in make-shift camps besides open ponds, drinking contaminated water, but the water was drying up. Soon, the thousands of fleeing refugees would not even have that.

John rubbed his face and turned to Mary, who had flopped down exhausted on the large cot in the corner. He walked over, took off his shoes and laid down next to her. She clasped his hand, and the small gesture of intimacy made him take in a sharp breath. He put his other arm above his head and covered his eyes with his hand.

Mary turned over and propped herself up on her elbow.

"How are you holding up?" she asked gently.

John cleared his throat. "It's ok. Been a long day."

She leaned forward and rested her chin on John's shoulder. "I just talked with Peter. He got back from the hospital about an hour ago. They told him that two doctors are missing from a clinic in Pibor."

This had been the third report of doctors missing in South Sudan in the past month. John shook his head.

"We need to be more careful when we go out. I don't know how, but..."

Mary reached up to stroke John's hair and he involuntarily flinched away before she could touch him. She slowly withdrew her hand and put it down on his chest instead. John could feel her looking at him, searching his face with her steady, wise brown eyes. He was hoping the moment would pass unremarked, and like the other times she would just move on.

This time he wasn't so lucky.

"Why do you do that, John?"

John turned his head away from her so his face wouldn't betray him, but he could tell Mary wouldn't let it go that easily. She let her hand flow down his arm and rub gently back and forth over his fading scars.

"You know, we see children dying every day. We see women who have been raped and shot, men who have seen and done terrible things. And you carry on, you work through. None of it really seems to get to you. But then I reach to touch you... and it's as if I'm going to burn you..."

She gently laid her fingers on his chin and turned his head towards her. He knew she would see the tears, but he could not fight it.

"What happened to you?"

He looked her in the eye but didn't respond. He didn't know what to say.

"Was it a woman?" she asked. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Was it a friend?"

When she said the word "friend," the stream came rushing in uninvited. Thumbs plucking strings on the violin. Dark hair flying as he shot John's gun at their wall. Him jumping on his chair like an idiot and yelling at the television. His smile as he laughed at something John had said. The smell of him on the pillow. The feel of his fingers in John's hair.

John felt the tear make a path down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't."

Her lips were so soft on his that it almost made him forget. Even though he hadn't said a word, that was the only time they ever talked about Sherlock.

* * *

When Mycroft answered his phone, he knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.

"Mycroft - I don't know what to do," Molly said, her voice sounding small and terrified. "He won't come out of his room and I'm afraid he's... I don't know what he's done, but this house... Mycroft, have you seen his flat?"

"I'm on my way. Stay there and don't talk to him. Just wait until I get there."

Mycroft ended the call and immediately had his driver take him to Sherlock's flat. Molly was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was still alive, and she was stuck with the burden of helping to care for him. She often ran errands and brought him food, but it had taken a heavy toll on the poor girl. Sherlock was not easy to deal with at the best of times, but Mycroft had no idea how bad it was until he entered Sherlock's flat. When he reached the door on the third floor and opened it, he was unprepared for what he found. He hadn't actually been inside the flat for months, and the last time he was here it was disorderly but nothing outside the norm for his brother.

But this time was different. This place was the home of a madman. One entire wall was covered with photos and strings, scribbled notes held up with pins and knives, all spread out in the shape of a web. At the center of the web was a photo of Moriarty.

Mycroft was in shock; he had no idea that Sherlock's research had discovered such a complicated web. As he walked over and looked closely, his alarm mounted. Photo after photo had a big black "X" through it.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he whispered. "How many people have you killed?"

And then there, right near the center of the web close to Moriarty, was a photo of John. Immediately to its right was a blank piece of paper with a large question mark on it, circled over and over in red. The missing piece. Sherlock had still not found the assassin assigned to John.

He heard Molly make a small noise, and Mycroft turned to look at the rest of the flat. It looked as if Sherlock had not left in weeks. There were books and clothes piled among broken glass and crumpled pieces of paper. He looked at Molly, who was standing awkwardly looking around the room with wide eyes.

"Did you see any needles?" Mycroft asked her, and she winced at the question.

"I... erm... I'm pretty sure he's got some in his bedroom," she said in a trembling voice. "Mycroft, he looks like he hasn't eaten in days, maybe weeks. We have to do something. He's going to kill himself."

Mycroft steeled himself and painted his most practiced elderly brother look onto his face. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it.

The room was completely dark, but after his eyes adjusted he could see a form sitting in the corner. He turned on the light and Sherlock immediately groaned and covered his face with his arms.

"Turn that damn thing off," Sherlock's voice rasped.

"But your flat is such a lovely shade of disaster that I wouldn't want to miss a single thing," Mycroft said dryly. The bed had been stripped of all the blankets and sheets, which were lying in a pile on the floor. On the nightstand was a long needle. He walked over and picked it up gingerly between a finger and thumb, examining it like it was a bug. "And I see you've taken to the needle again."

Sherlock sprang from the corner like a cat, grabbed his paraphernalia out of Mycroft's hands and shoved it into a drawer.

"Don't lecture me about drug addiction Mycroft I know all about it," Sherlock nearly shouted, running all his words together. He then swept out of the room and started roughly rummaging through his books next to the Moriarty wall. Mycroft followed him in and stood watching his brother devolve before him.

"Ah yes, let's discuss drug addiction, shall we? Let me guess. You don't have a problem because it helps you to focus."

Sherlock spun around, held up his hand and started counting on his fingers, becoming increasingly mocking and angry as he ranted. "Risk factors: male, family history, trauma as a child, trauma as an adult, mental disorders such as hyperactivity, lack of family involvement, earlier use of drugs. Having trouble with relationships. Feeling isolated. Anxiety, depression, loneliness. Coping with chronic pain! Helps me focus! Denial of the problem!"

He grabbed a glass on the table and threw it against the wall, sending more shards of glass shooting around the room. Molly let out a small scream and then whimpered in the corner. Mycroft stood unflinching, an immoveable statue with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock stood there breathing hard and then tangled his hands in his hair.

After a few moments, when it appeared this may be a break in the storm, Mycroft spoke again quietly.

"Would you want John to see you like this, Sherlock?"

At that, Sherlock buckled over as if in pain and then crouched to his knees.

"Yes! Yes, I want him to know! I want him to know that I am alive and that I can't think when he's not here! I want him to know that he's safe, that everyone is dead and he can come home. I want him to know that I miss him and it's over, that we can get on with … our lives..." Sherlock's hands covered his face and he curled up on the rug.

"But that's a lie," he whimpered, "because they're not all dead. I still have one more, one I can't find, and I can't think, John..."

Mycroft brought out his phone and sent a very brief text. He then walked over to Sherlock, knelt down and spoke softly into his ear.

"I'm going to get you some help, Sherlock," he said and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It was going to be hard. It was always hard.

"Did you read the papers, Mycroft?" he whispered through his fingers. "Two doctors are missing from a clinic in Sudan."

"It isn't John," Mycroft said immediately. "My contact at Médecins Sans Frontières called me, and it wasn't him."

Sherlock hugged himself with his arms and rocked slightly back and forth, his face turned to the rug.

"I'm not who I am, Mycroft," he said, and his voice was so muffled that Mycroft had to bend down to hear him. "This isn't who I am. I want me back."

Mycroft just sighed. This year couldn't end quickly enough.


	10. The Ghosts of London

As John walked through the airport, he had this strange feeling like everything was too clean. The people, the floors, the small shops serving customers, everything had this surreal quality of wealth and radiance. It made him feel dirty and gaunt, like his entire body was covered with dust and he didn't belong in this place, like he was a ghost coming back to haunt the house where he used to live.

He walked through customs and into the crowd of people waiting to meet international arrivals. He was almost through weaving in and out of the crowd when he stopped and blinked at a familiar face - Greg Lestrade, straining around people to look for someone. John smiled and walked over.

"Greg?" he said, and the detective inspector turned to him. He stared blankly at John for a second and then took a step back in surprise.

"John! Oh my God, I didn't recognize you!" he said, then gave John a huge hug. John smiled and hugged the man back gratefully. When they released, John scratched his chin.

"Yes, well, the beard," he said.

"Yeah - and the hair," Greg said, and John laughed. He had let his hair grow down below his ears and it was slightly sun bleached, and he imagined that with the beard and the tan and a bit of weight loss he must have looked very different.

"So, what are you doing here? You look like you're waiting for someone..."

"You, you lout! I'm here to pick you up," Greg said.

This time it was John's turn to be surprised. He had just assumed that Mycroft would meet him at the airport, and for some reason he couldn't explain he suddenly felt his chest constrict and a lump form in his throat. He looked at the floor and blinked several times.

"You ok, mate?" Greg said, and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was just a long flight," he said, then took a breath and raised his head with a smile. "I guess I'm a little overwhelmed."

Greg laughed. "Well, you've been in Africa for over a year so I can't see why."

John looked at Greg for a moment and really studied his face. He looked exactly the same as last time he'd seen him.

"It's really good to see you, Greg," he said with a smile. "Thanks for coming."

Greg grabbed John's luggage and tilted his head to the side to have John follow. They walked through the airport and into the cold, wet evening. John shivered. It had been so long since he'd been in the cold English air that it accentuated the feeling that he was somehow a foreign object. Greg kept looking over at John with disbelief in his eyes, like he was trying to get used to this new John, and it only made the feeling of otherness more pronounced.

They got into Greg's car and headed into the city.

"So... did Mycroft tell you I was coming in?" John asked after they were on the M23.

"He called and asked if I would come and pick you up. He said he had something to do or he would have come himself," Greg said, then looked at John. "He said to tell you welcome home."

John nodded then looked out the window. He couldn't help but be a little puzzled by this. Without consciously realising it, he had expected Mycroft to pick him up, to just appear suddenly like he always did. Although John had never used the phone Mycroft had given him, he kept it on him at all times, just as he'd been told, and he treasured it like a holy relic protecting him from evil. He hadn't realised until he had been standing in the airport that he was actually looking forward to seeing Mycroft. Somehow Mycroft felt like the closest thing to family that John had.

He slowly began to notice that Greg kept looking at him, and when he turned towards him he caught Greg glancing at John's hand curiously. Yes, John knew he would get questions.

"So... ah... you're married?" Greg said hesitantly, nodding towards the ring on John's finger. Obviously, John had not come home with someone, so it must have been an awkward question for Greg. John just shrugged.

"It didn't work out," he said, but didn't elaborate. Greg looked ahead at the road and didn't ask any more questions about it. John didn't know how he would have explained it to Greg if had pressed him anyway. After he and Mary split, he couldn't take off the ring. At first he thought it was because he was being sentimental, or he had simply got used to it and liked wearing it. But eventually he realised the ring was an appropriate symbol for John, although not for the reasons people might think. Most people would assume it meant he was unavailable because he was married. For John the ring meant that he was simply unavailable, full stop. It was the reason he and Mary had split in the end, and he might as well let the rest of the world know as well and save people the trouble of trying to get to know him.

John changed the subject and asked Greg how things were at Scotland Yard, and Greg boisterously started to fill him in on the gossip from the past year. Anderson and Donovan continued to have an on-again/off-again relationship, much to his annoyance, and he'd had several unsolved murders in the past year. Greg studiously avoided mentioning the name of John's former flatmate and he tried to keep the conversation light, but every time he started to talk excitedly about a case, he would catch himself, look at John apologetically and then change the subject. After a while, it started to get on John's nerves.

"You can talk about your work, Greg, it's fine," he said, and Greg looked at John's face to make sure he really was ok with it. Greg seemed to be reassured by what he saw and smiled a little.

"You've changed, John," Greg said. "You look alright."

John couldn't help the small sigh that escaped his lips. Of course he'd changed. He'd had the sorrow and the hurt burned out of him, and all that was left was emptiness. It was far better than the torment John was in before he left London, but he had to acknowledge that it was unlikely he'd ever be the same as before. It was ok, though. He had gotten used to it.

"I'd like to think so," John said, and smiled at Greg.

"So what are you going to do now that you're back? You're welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. I'm working all the time anyway, so you probably wouldn't see me much."

"That would be great, thanks," John said with honest gratitude. "I've put in some enquiries, and I think I can start back at the surgery. I want to get back to work as soon as I can, so I wouldn't expect to stay on your couch for very long."

"Sounds like a plan then. You can stay with me for as long as you need. You hungry?"

John could feel a huge grin breaking out on his face. "Starving. I would kill for some Chinese takeaway."

After the first night on Greg's couch, John spent the next couple of days resting and taking care of some business. On the third day he started working at the surgery. He immediately volunteered to work extra shifts and was soon working long days and looking for flats in the evenings. When he had moments of free time, he would text Greg to see if he needed any help with anything, and he started to consult with the police to give a second opinion on victims of violence. He ran into Molly Hooper and went to say hello, but she seemed so disconcerted to see John that he ended up just nodding a greeting and then avoiding her. After the initial feelings of panic that arose the first time he walked into the morgue, he calmed down and handled himself professionally. A few weeks after he returned to London, he found a small one-bedroom flat near his work and moved in.

Even though he and Greg got along well, he was grateful to get out of Greg's flat; the nights had been awkward. John didn't sleep much, and when he did, he didn't sleep soundly. He was used to working himself to such a dead-tired state that he would pass out the moment he hit his pillow, but he was finding himself tossing and turning all night now that he was back in London. He still tossed around after he moved into his own flat, but at least he didn't feel self conscious if he got up at 3 a.m.

He found that he was also having a hard time shaking that strange feeling of otherness, like he was a stranger in his own city. Every time he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he thought about his beard and considered shaving. He kind of liked the fact that his outward appearance reflected the internal changes in him though. He also didn't mind that sometimes past acquaintances didn't recognise him, and he could walk the streets and not be bothered. He knew there was a possibility that a stranger would recognise him as well from his life before, when he'd had his photos occasionally in the papers, and he wanted to avoid that if possible. So he kept the beard. He still had not seen Mycroft, and although it threatened to stir up a deep pain within, he just let it go. Perhaps in this past year, Mycroft had moved on. John hoped Mycroft had been able to accept the way things were and was living his life doing whatever mysterious government things he did. He expected he would see him again at some point, so he didn't feel a rush to seek him out.

Life was beginning to take shape into a new normal, and he was grateful. He was ready to start over and move on, into this next phase of his life. He was alone, but that was for the best. He wasn't much fun to live with anyway. He had nothing to offer.

About three weeks after he had moved in to his new flat, he was returning home loaded with bags from Tesco when he reached to put his key into the lock and froze. He stood still, his lips parted as he breathed out of his mouth quietly, and he leaned in closer to the door to listen. He swore he had heard something move inside his flat. He put his shopping down as quietly as he could and then looked around for something that he could possibly use as a weapon. Unfortunately, the best he could do was his umbrella, so he grabbed it in the centre to hold it like a club, and then quietly turned the key in the lock and tiptoed into the room. Light was coming in through the open window, and as he crept up to the living room and peeked around the corner, he saw a dark form looming in the center of the room with his back to John. The man had a long trench coat on over a hooded pullover, and it looked like he was examining something in his hands. John held up the umbrella and was about to rush forward to hit the man on the head when he turned around.

There, under the tips of soft blond curls, was the unmistakable face of Sherlock Holmes.

The world stopped. For a split instant, it seemed that all the sound in the universe was silenced and the planet had stopped spinning. The air was sucked out of the room and everything disappeared except for Sherlock's face staring back at him. Then in slow motion Sherlock's lips parted slightly as if he were going to say something, and it all came crashing down.

John was stumbling down the stairs, white lights flashing in his vision and the sound of a raging river pounding in his ears. The world was a cacophony of confusion and pain, the air burning his lungs like acid as he blindly ran onto the street. He stumbled out into the honking of cars and then into an alley. All he could think was that he had to get out, he had to get away, it was all too much and the pain was exploding in his chest and he was dying. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone, trying to blindly press numbers. He didn't know what he was doing but he heard a voice on the other side. "Mycroft!" he croaked, the words like sandpaper in his throat. "Mycroft - I can't -" He bent over and retched on the wall next to him, putting his hand up to hold himself. He heard his name being called and turned to see that face coming towards him.

"No!" The yell was torn from him as he backed away. "No, you stay away from me!" And he was stumbling backwards in a reeling vertigo. He turned and there was Mycroft stepping out of his car and John crawled into the back seat and sank down onto the floor and covered his head with his arms.

"Make it stop, make him go away, this can't be happening," he said over and over. "This can't be happening. Oh Jesus make it stop."

Time had no meaning, but at some point he felt Mycroft get into the seat next to him, shut the door and drive him far, far away.


	11. The Ruined Plan

Sherlock was exhausted. He sat on the edge of John's bed and looked about the room, and even in his tired state he could not help but take in every detail. What was most telling was how little there was to take in. Everything in the room had its place, but there was hardly anything in it. He had a small table. A comfortable overstuffed reading chair next to a lamp. Hardly any dishes or things in the cupboards. The only personal item that he had was a small framed photo of himself and a white woman standing next to a group of black men, women and children in colorful garb in what he could only assume was Africa.

There was no trace of Sherlock anywhere. It was as if he had never existed in John's life.

When Sherlock found out three days ago that John had returned and had his own flat, it was easy enough for him to find it and break in by climbing off the roof and in through the window. He was initially alarmed that John was not more careful about securing his flat, but then he realised that this John, this new John, did not have reason to believe anyone would be interested in him at all. Why should he lock his upstairs window? He had nothing.

Sherlock had been standing in the living room absorbed in the photo when he heard the squeaking footstep behind him. He had turned around, and there was John, holding an umbrella over his head with a look of fierce determination. When he saw Sherlock, he froze in shock and then almost immediately dropped the umbrella and ran down the stairs. Sherlock flew after him and watched in horror as John ran into the street and almost got hit by a van. John went into the alley opposite and vomited on the wall, and when Sherlock called his name, John turned to him with a look of terror. That was when Mycroft pulled up and stepped out and John almost dove into the back seat.

Mycroft was furious with him. He told Sherlock to go up to John's room and wait. So that's what he did. He waited.

Mycroft's driver eventually came to fetch him and Sherlock followed silently down to the black car. It was going to be a long two-hour drive, and even though he had longed to see John for all of these months, even though it had almost killed him, now all he felt was exhaustion and dread. Mycroft had said this would happen if they weren't deliberate and careful. He hated it when Mycroft was right. Mycroft had planned it down to the minutest detail. He was going to bring John out to the estate and explain everything and let John come to Sherlock on his own terms. It was reasonable, it made sense. Infuriating and frustrating and tedious, but it made sense. Sherlock didn't really mean to see John that night. He was just going to take a look around. If he couldn't see the man himself, he at least needed to see John's room, needed to see the evidence, the things that would tell John's story.

But something about the starkness of that flat was crushing. John barely lived there, barely existed at all in the world. He worked and ate and occasionally slept. But he was only a shadow of a person. And it was all Sherlock's fault.

When the car finally pulled up in the circular driveway and parked, Sherlock sat in the back seat for several minutes before getting out. Then he only made it to the doorstep before sitting down again. The moonless sky had cleared of clouds and the stars were so bright it was as if they were hovering right above the ground, right out of reach. Sherlock rarely noticed the stars as they were not usually relevant, but tonight they were so cold and bright, so clear and unmoving, unlike people, that part of him wished he could join them. But eventually Sherlock stood, shivering from the cold, and quietly opened the front door to come inside. He could see firelight flickering in the other room and was drawn to it like a moth. Mycroft was sitting on one of the large chairs and staring into the fire, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock walked over and sat down across from his brother.

Mycroft was not looking at him. He was still angry. Sherlock looked at his hands.

"I made a mistake," he said.

"Yes, you did," Mycroft said. "We had agreed. We had a plan."

Sherlock put his chin in the air and tried to explain.

"I just needed to see his room."

"No, no you didn't, Sherlock. You needed to follow the plan. But just like you always do, you went ahead and did whatever the hell you wanted anyway."

Irritation started to edge out the tired shame. Why was it always him who was having to apologise?

"John has been back for a month, and you only told me three days ago that he was here at all. I've been out here for weeks, Mycroft, and we have been wasting precious time."

Mycroft looked at him for the first time, and even though his voice was calm, the anger was clear in his eyes.

"It was your choice to come out here, Sherlock, and it was the right thing to do. You needed to recover, and there was no way you were going to do that in London. Certainly not under the circumstances."

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. He was so tired. It might be because he hadn't slept in three days.

"But he was here and you didn't tell me," Sherlock said, looking back at Mycroft. "I don't know if you've been to his flat, Mycroft, but there's nothing there. It's as if he..."

But Mycroft wasn't looking at him any more. He was staring intensely at something behind Sherlock. Sherlock felt a rush of adrenaline and jumped out of the chair. John Watson was standing in the door frame with a robe over his clothes and his hands in his pockets. Sherlock opened his mouth like a fish and let the air escape his lungs, then closed it again and stood absolutely still.

John studied him with his chin down and his eyebrows drawn together. The panic and horror had left his face and was instead replaced with distrust and wariness, which was almost worse. He seemed smaller than Sherlock remembered, and his beard made him look wrong. Everything about him seemed wrong and suddenly Sherlock was disoriented. He opened his mouth to ask John why he seemed so wrong when John held up his hand and stopped him.

"Don't," he said. Sherlock closed his mouth and stood there silently, watching as John slowly put his hand back in his pocket and walked to the couch, which was set back between the two chairs. John sat down stiffly and stared at the fire.

Long moments passed, and Sherlock could not move or take his eyes from John. Eventually Mycroft stood.

"It's time for me to take my leave of you, gentlemen," he said and then walked towards the front door. Just before leaving the room, however, he turned to face them. "And boys, if the house is not standing when I return I am going to be very disappointed. Good night."

Sherlock heard the front door click shut, and the heavy silence of the empty house pressed into the space between him and John. He suddenly felt the urge to flee, to escape the pressure of the moment as he watched John sit like he was made of granite. But he could not leave, it would not have been possible. If John wanted it, Sherlock would stand there forever.

"Mycroft told me what happened. While we were driving here. After I stopped screaming, that is," John said and then looked up at him with that same look of distrust. Sherlock didn't respond, didn't hardly breathe. John became agitated.

"Stop just standing there like an idiot and sit down," he said. Sherlock looked at the chair Mycroft had been sitting in and then obeyed. He sat and looked at the rug and then heard John sigh.

"What is the matter with you, Sherlock? How could you do this? What in heaven's name were you thinking?" John asked with such sincerity that Sherlock felt a cracking somewhere in his chest. He opened and closed his mouth a few more times and then forced the words out.

"I was... trying to protect you."

John made a sound that Sherlock realised was supposed to be laughter, but it sounded more like a croak. "Yes, well like I said. You're an idiot."

Sherlock wanted to just lie at John's feet and curl up and beg for forgiveness, but he couldn't move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John lean forward, rest his forehead on his hand and just sit there. They were both frozen. They needed to get past this. He needed to tell John.

"I couldn't think."

John looked up at him. His eyes were red and heavy.

"What do you mean you couldn't think?"

"I couldn't think when you weren't here."

All of the sudden John's face crumpled in pain. He closed his eyes and brought his fists up to his head and pressed them to his temples. Sherlock could not stand it a moment longer and he stood up to move towards John, but John held up his hand again to make him stop. Sherlock spun around and started pacing back and forth in front of the fire.

"I couldn't think and it just kept going on and on, John, the threads of Moriarty's web. I was right when I called him a spider. One path led to five others and one person was watching another and it was all connected and it was brilliant. And I killed them all."

He stopped still and stared across the room. He didn't feel bad about killing people. He had done it before, and these were not good people. They were cold blooded killers, each and every one of them. But somehow he knew this was not the kind of thing one said out loud. He was afraid to look at John, but he had to continue. He turned, and John was looking at him with his mouth open in shock.

"All except for one, the one he had assigned to you," he said. And as he looked at John, wrapped in a robe and sitting on the couch in front of the fire at his family home, the most precious thing Sherlock had ever known, his insides turned to stone. He didn't care if he had to kill every last person in London if it meant keeping John safe. But maybe now he wouldn't have to.

"Now that you're here, I'll be able to figure it out."

John looked like he was about to pass out, and he lay back on the couch and covered his face.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he said.

"Also, Mycroft put me in rehab. The Priory, of course."

John's chest contracted and he looked like he was starting to sob, but then he took his hands away and Sherlock realised he was laughing. A genuine, heartfelt John laugh. John looked at him with bewilderment.

"And you went willingly? You stayed?" he asked. He looked overwhelmed.

"Well... someone died, so it was interesting," Sherlock said. For some unexplainable reason this made John laugh more, and when Sherlock furled his brow and looked at him curiously, John just laughed harder.

"Oh Sherlock, what a fucking mess," John said and then shook his head. "I've missed you."

He wiped his face and looked at Sherlock with moist eyes, and suddenly all of the pain and longing from the past year and a half finally broke through in Sherlock's chest and his knees buckled. He sat down on the floor against the chair, resting his head against the arm, and just watched John's face.

The laughter slowly faded, but John's eyes stayed warm as he met Sherlock's gaze. They sat there looking at each other for a long time, until John let out a huge yawn and laid back against the couch and closed his eyes. Sherlock got up and went over to a trunk against the wall. He took out a few blankets and pillows and brought them over. John was watching him carefully with one eye, but he accepted the pillow and the blanket and made himself comfortable on the couch. Sherlock put another log on the fire and then lay down on the rug next to John. The fatigue was starting to overwhelm him and he closed his eyes.

"I'm so tired, John," he said and could feel exhaustion pulling at the corners of his mind. He started to feel his breathing deepen and his mind drift, and then he felt John's fingers wrap around his own.

"I am too, Sherlock," he said. "See if you can sleep."

And just as Sherlock was falling into blackness, he heard John whisper. It was so quiet he might have dreamed it.

"I'll be here."


	12. 20 Questions with Holmes and Watson

John woke in a bed with bright light streaming through the windows. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was, but then he saw the back of a blond head of curls sticking out from under the covers next to him.

Right. Sherlock's mum's house. With Sherlock. When did his life become so bizarre?

He quietly got out of bed, grabbed his robe and crept out of the room. He looked down the long hallway, one direction then the other, and tried to remember how they got there. He remembered Sherlock waking him in the middle of the night and taking him upstairs, but he was half asleep and he didn't really remember where the room was or how to get back downstairs. All he could remember was how cold Sherlock's hands were and how he shivered in bed until John put his arms around him and told him that's what he got for sleeping on the floor. Sherlock had let out a small sigh and then had quickly fallen back to sleep.

But now John was hungry. He realised he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, as he had planned to make a late dinner when he got home to his flat the night before. He wondered what happened to the groceries he left sprawled outside his open flat. He shook his head. He had bigger things to deal with.

John decided to go to the left, which turned out to be the wrong direction as he found himself in the back of the house going down what he figured was a servant staircase, but it landed him close to the kitchen, which was where he wanted to be. The house was obviously very old, but the kitchen was bright and shining with new appliances, a large marble island and lots of space for cooking. Someone who lived here, or at least someone who used the house, liked to cook. Obviously not Sherlock. The man had no idea how to make anything but tea.

He started rummaging through the cupboards and the fridge and found the kitchen to be well stocked. He was still getting used to the idea of just walking into a kitchen and being able to get whatever he wanted. He had lived for the past year without anything but the very basics, so it felt extravagant even to have cold milk. But he put those strange feelings aside, got out kippers, bread and tomatoes and started to make breakfast.

By the time the pans were sizzling and the food was almost finished, he heard Sherlock shuffle in. John was just about to put the bread in a toaster when he looked up and froze. Sherlock was wrapped in a big white duvet and was watching him cautiously as he walked over to a stool next to the marble island and sat down. His blond hair was unruly and his face was full of sleep, and John had to take in a deep breath to steady himself. John swallowed and forced himself back to making breakfast. He handed Sherlock a cup of coffee and when he finished the food, he split it onto two plates and set one of them in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at the food like he was considering it. Within a second, John felt the old annoyance about Sherlock's eating habits resurface. Some things never change.

"Alright, first things first. I'm not going to argue with you about food anymore. I will set it down in front of you and you will eat it. Are we clear?"

Sherlock looked up at him and a small, sheepish smile formed at the corner of his lips. He picked up the fork, scooped up a large bite and put it into his mouth. John let out a snort and then grabbed a stool and started eating. They finished the breakfast in silence, but John could feel the mood change and become a little strained. After they finished, he grabbed their plates, put them in the sink and then returned to sit. He sat looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock seemed to squirm under John's gaze.

"You've got questions."

John raised his eyebrows and started.

"How many then?" John asked.

"How many what?" Sherlock asked, his voice lowered.

"How many did you kill?"

"Ah." Sherlock said and then hesitated. "Thirteen."

It was not the answer John had expected.

"Oh. Well, that is a lot of people but when you said you had 'killed them all' …"

Sherlock looked affronted. "That isn't enough for you? It wasn't easy, you know. Well, when I say it wasn't easy, of course it was not difficult at all, nor were their bodies difficult to dispose of. As you know, I have 152 infallible ways to dispose of a body in London without anyone knowing. Unfortunately, two of my victims I had to leave at the scene and were eventually found by the police. But what's two more unsolved cases for Lestrade? He seems to collect them." He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I seem to remember telling you to take those 152 ways off your website," John said.

"That was probably for the best. Also it was not necessary to kill everyone involved. Some seemed perfectly happy to accept money after a little..."

He searched for the right word. "Persuasion."

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and then set it down and waited for the next question. John frowned at the thought of the dubious persuasion techniques he imagined Sherlock might find reasonable, but decided not to pursue that line of enquiry, at least for the moment. He honestly didn't think he wanted to know. So John proceeded forward.

"Which drugs?"

Sherlock's face fell slightly.

"What does it matter?" he asked. But when it appeared that John was waiting for an answer, he reluctantly continued. "Cocaine. Mostly. Occasionally heroin if things got bad."

"What things?"

Sherlock looked at his coffee and made shapes with his lips. The agitation was mounting, and John decided he didn't want to fight about it.

"It's ok," he said and tried to get Sherlock's eye. "We don't have to talk about it."

Sherlock seemed to calm a little, although he didn't elaborate and instead chose to watch his coffee.

"Do I get to ask questions too?"

John sighed. "That seems fair."

"What's her name?"

For some reason, John was completely unprepared for the question. In everything that had happened since last night, he had forgotten about the ring on his finger.

"Mary."

"Why did you leave her?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John did not think he was able to talk about this. He got up and walked over to the window that looked out over the hills behind the estate. He knew perfectly well why he left Mary. There was no question in his mind. But at the time, Sherlock was dead and it was much simpler. Now things were entirely more complicated and he hadn't even begun to work through his feelings on the subject.

"I'm not sure I can tell you that."

"That's not very satisfactory," Sherlock said.

John turned around, his hands on his hips.

"I'm not sure if you have the right to know, Sherlock. You were dead and I had to move on."

Sherlock gave him a level look.

"It wouldn't be difficult to deduce..."

"Don't you dare do that to me," John said with his voice low and dangerous.

Sherlock turned back to his coffee.

"Alright, my turn again," John said, and now he was not feeling kind nor gentle. "Why did you do it? Why did you leave me alone?"

Sherlock seemed absorbed with examining his coffee cup. He didn't look up, but his breathing was tight and he had lowered his head. John moved around and sat back on the stool next to him.

"You left me totally alone, Sherlock. I had nothing. I had no one. It wasn't pretty. At times..." John felt the pain rise through his chest and into his voice. "At times I didn't know if I was going to make it."

Sherlock reached over, grabbed John's hand and started to pull on it. At first John resisted, but Sherlock looked into John's face and continued to pull gently until John relented. Sherlock extended John's arm onto the cold marble and started to examine it. The scars were more than a year old, but they were deep and lasting. To a surgeon or a detective practiced in the arts of death, they were obviously not wounds intended for suicide. The were on the outside of the arm, not the inside, and they were horizontal along muscle rather than in danger of injuring any veins or arteries. But they were too regular, too deep and too straight to be accidents. They were self inflicted, deep wounds put there by a man in pain. Sherlock ran his fingers along each scar, tracing it with a delicate finger.

"You were not trying to kill yourself," Sherlock said and then looked up to John. "So what were you doing?"

John pulled his arm away and folded it up against his chest. He really did not want to talk about it, he had not talked about it with anyone. It had been a dark secret, and he felt ashamed. But he took a deep breath and pushed through the fear.

"It helped," he said. "It helped to distract me. Somehow the physical pain pulled me away from what was going on inside. I don't know. It's hard to explain."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "It was similar with the heroin. But less bloody, I would imagine. And less painful."

"I would imagine."

Sherlock examined John's face, and then tentatively reached up to lightly brush the short beard.

"I'm ... not sure about this," he said.

John reached up and pushed aside one of Sherlock's blond curls.

"I'm not sure about this," John answered.

"I'm in disguise."

"I guess I am, too."

"Yes," Sherlock said, then looked away again. "I saw your room. It seems more than just a disguise."

It had been a while since John had been around Sherlock's sharp perceptions, and it was going to take a while to get used to again. He had become accustomed to being able to hide and obfuscate, to pretend that he was fine and move on. But he could not pretend with Sherlock. Sherlock might be completely daft at many things, but if he put his mind to a problem, he always figured it out. John knew he was one of those problems. That didn't mean he was ready to talk through all of his inner workings, however.

"This is going to take some time, Sherlock," John said. "Twenty-four hours ago you were dead."

Sherlock sat up straight and turned his body to face the window, looking out over the estate. He stood, leaving the duvet on the stool, and walked to the window in his silk pyjamas.

"And I must remain dead until we can figure out where this last killer is."

And there it was. Sherlock was already moving forward and simply assumed that now John was here, he would join him again and off they would go, solving mysteries together as if nothing had happened. John scratched his beard and thought about his new flat, his new job, the life he had been building back up before it all came down like a house of cards. He felt his shoulders slump slightly as if he were letting go of some heavy burden. The life he had been building was a sham. It was the best he could possibly do given the circumstances, but he had been just pretending to live and it was all pale and meaningless. Now that Sherlock was here, it was as if colour had returned to the world, and he knew he was absolutely powerless to resist. Wherever Sherlock went, he would follow, damn the consequences. God help him.

"All right then," John said. "What do we need to do?"


	13. Fisticuffs and Other Mistakes

This was not a good idea. In fact, it was a decidedly terrible idea. Sherlock bit his fingernails until he realised what he was doing and then tucked his hand under his bouncing leg.

"Sherlock, relax," John said next to him. "If you don't want to come up, you can stay in the car."

"Unacceptable," Sherlock said curtly. It was a terrible idea to let John into his flat, but there didn't seem to be any other way. Earlier in the day, John and Sherlock had sat in the kitchen and decided they would go over all the facts together, which included going back to Sherlock's flat and looking at the evidence he had put on his wall over the months. They called Mycroft, and while Mycroft had strongly objected, John had insisted. Mycroft wouldn't allow Sherlock to go back by himself, however, and since Sherlock wouldn't let John go without him, they struck a compromise. John and Sherlock would go together.

Even though the entire conversation with Mycroft was irritating, as usual, Sherlock could not help but note the quiet and confidential way John talked with his brother, and it made his throat tighten. In the past year and a half, even though Mycroft had often just been a go-between for Sherlock, something akin to genuine friendship seemed to have developed between the two of them. Sherlock furrowed his brow as a confused mix of longing and jealousy panged his chest.

But he pushed these thoughts out of his mind as the car pulled up to a corner three blocks from Sherlock's flat, however, and a hooded Sherlock emerged and strode along the street with John walking quickly behind him. They climbed the three flights of stairs and approached the door. By then Sherlock's anxiety was threatening to overwhelm him, and his hands were starting to shake as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. But before he could open the lock, John reached out and grabbed his other hand and turned Sherlock towards him. John looked him directly in the eyes, his face filled with concern.

"You really don't need to come back here," John said quietly and squeezed his hand. They stood looking at each other, slightly breathless from the stairs, and slowly Sherlock could feel the fractured nervous energy recede as he was grounded in the steadiness of John's eyes. Something about the look on John's face and the closeness of his body began to bring the world back into focus. But as the moment expanded and they stood there watching each other, they both seemed to realize how close they were standing, face to face with their hands clasped. Sherlock's eyes involuntarily dropped to John's lips before coming back up to his eyes, and John's flushed reaction was so engrossing that Sherlock took a small step closer to narrow the gap between them. John took a breath, but he did not turn away or break eye contact.

"John..." Sherlock started to say as he leaned into John, a hunger growing inside him, but no other words seemed to want to follow.

"Um..." John stammered and then swallowed. "Yes?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side and considered. John was so close, and the heightened energy coursing through his body was so strong, that every part of him wanted to follow that stream forward into John. But he knew that if there was ever a time and a place for that, this wasn't it. He thought of the door behind him and felt a twinge of the nervousness sting his gut again. He adjusted the grip of their hands slightly and slipped his fingers between John's.

"What's on the other side of this door, I just want you to know... it was from before," he said.

John withdrew slightly and took a deep breath, and Sherlock could feel the moment soften slightly as concern entered John's eyes again.

"It's ok," he said. "We'll just take what we need and leave."

Sherlock nodded slightly, pulled his hand away, unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door open for John. When John didn't immediately step in, he glanced up and saw him staring at the Moriarty wall with a growing grimness, and then look around at the disaster that was the flat. Sherlock looked away from John's face and at the broken glass and the madness, and it made him feel sick. He leaned back against the wall behind the door then slid to the floor. John stepped in and put his hand on Sherlock's head, and Sherlock closed his eyes. He would not have been able to return here without John. The familiar smell of dysfunction and chaos in the flat caused unwanted urges to rise in his body. He knew exactly where all the hidden needles and poisons were, and he clamped down his jaw and concentrated on John's hand in his hair.

John had pulled out his phone and was taking pictures of the wall with his other hand, and then he stepped away from Sherlock to take more detailed shots. Sherlock sat and watched as John spent several minutes systematically cataloguing the entire wall. When he was done, John turned to him.

"Is there anything else here we need?" he asked and nervously glanced around the flat. Sherlock pointed to a laptop buried under a pile, and John reached down to fetch it.

"Anything else? Clothes or... anything?"

Sherlock stood and picked up a box in the corner of the room. He rummaged around in the detritus and pulled out his skull.

"What about your violin?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him. He looked around to see if there was anything else that might be of value.

"Sherlock? Where's your violin?"

Sherlock kicked a book that was lying open on the floor and then started for the door.

"The rest Mycroft can either burn or box, however he likes, I don't care," Sherlock said and refused to meet John's eyes. This had been a mistake.

When he reached the door, he heard a thump outside in the hall. All his senses immediately kicked into alert and he rushed out the door just as a head disappeared down the stairway. He could hear a person running down the stairs. He dropped the skull on the ground.

"You stay here!" he said to John and then ran down the stairs without waiting for a response. Sherlock wouldn't see that flat ever again.

* * *

The next day, John was staring at a medical file. He didn't know how long he'd been staring at it, but it must have been a while because every so often he would come out of his reverie, look around and then stare back at the file, trying to focus.

John hadn't seen Sherlock since the day before when he had disappeared down the stairs, running after someone. When Sherlock had yelled at him to stay in the apartment, it surprised him just long enough to make him hesitate. By the time John recovered and ran down the stairs after Sherlock, he was gone. Disappeared. John's heart had been racing in his chest and he was furious with himself for not catching up in time. And furious with Sherlock for running off and disappearing.

John was simply furious.

He had gone back up to the flat and began pacing in the hallway. After 20 minutes of becoming increasingly distressed, he finally called Mycroft and explained what had happened. Mycroft told him to grab the things they had set aside and leave the flat immediately. Not knowing what else to do, and not really wanting to stay in that flat with Moriarty's face staring out from the center of the web on the wall, he left.

He and Sherlock had already decided earlier in the day that John would return to his own flat that night and go to work the next day, as if nothing was changed. Until they found their killer, they had to maintain the illusion that Sherlock was dead and John had moved on. When they made their plan, however, he disliked the idea of leaving Sherlock, but he couldn't really find a reasonable argument against it. Of course he would go back to his flat to sleep. It must be done.

But that was before Sherlock disappeared. While the idea of sleeping in his flat alone was frustrating at first, this was intolerable. He had no idea where Sherlock was, if he was dying in an alley or had been kidnapped or shot, and John didn't sleep that night. He paced or sat on his bed and stared into space.

Now he was sitting at his desk at the surgery and trying to concentrate, but it was hopeless. He put down the patient's medical file and rubbed his eyes. The worry and the anger were not the only things he was feeling. Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see Sherlock's face, so close to his, watching John's mouth and looking like he was going to devour John whole. The raw desire he saw in Sherlock's face was so undeniable that he could not dislodge it from his mind.

John groaned just as Sarah walked into the room.

"You alright? You don't look very good today," she asked. "Are you still sick from yesterday?"

"Might be," John said and tried a feeble smile.

She walked to him and gave him a sympathetic pat. John was used to pity from Sarah, but now it felt uncomfortable because he felt he was lying to her. Sherlock was alive, but he couldn't say anything about it.

Or at least Sherlock was alive last time he saw him.

"Yes, I think I don't feel well," John said, honestly feeling nauseous. "I'm going to go home to get some sleep."

Sarah gave him a quick hug and John left. Because he had no idea what else to do, he headed back to his flat. When he unlocked the door, he found Sherlock sitting at the table in front of John's laptop. Sherlock looked up as John opened the door.

"Ah, you're here. How was work?"

John just stared at him dumbfounded and then slammed the door and walked over to the table. He slapped his hands down. "How was …? Sherlock, where the hell have you been?"

Sherlock closed the laptop with one hand and then slowly stood up as if to walk into the kitchen.

"It doesn't really matter. What really matters is ..."

John didn't let him finish the sentence. Before Sherlock could tell John what really mattered, John punched Sherlock in the face so hard he knocked him against the wall.

"It doesn't matter?!" John roared at him, letting all of the fury and pain finally release. After months and years of suffering, the rage was raw. "You are the most selfish, inconsiderate bastard I have ever met! I saw you die! Right in front of my very eyes! You fucking jumped. Off a building. And then you lied to me about it for over a year!"

Sherlock lay slumped against the wall, touching his cheek and breathing hard. He looked up at John with pain in his face. John turned away and put his hands on his head, trying to get a handle on himself.

"I don't know if I can ever trust you again, Sherlock," he said to the wall in a low, ragged voice. "You betrayed me. I don't care if you were trying to save my life, you lied to me..."

He heard Sherlock groan behind him, and after a moment he couldn't help but turn around. Sherlock had slumped over and appeared to be in real pain - more pain than he should have been for being punched in the face.

"What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock gave a dark laugh. "You mean besides the fact that you just punched me in the face?" he said and then attempted to get to his knees but then sat back and groaned again. He was holding his left arm close to his body, and John's medical training immediately kicked in. He rushed over to Sherlock and started to touch his chest and arm.

"What happened?" he said and then opened Sherlock's jacket. The left side was soaked in blood.

"Dammit, Sherlock, what happened?" he said again, this time more urgently. "Lie down on the floor and don't move."

"I'll be fine. The knife missed my lung and major arteries," he said, but he lay down on the floor and let John tend to him. John turned on the lamp near the chair and brought it closer so he could see. He peeled back Sherlock's jacket and could see a knife wound going through Sherlock's pullover near the shoulder. John quickly went to his closet and pulled out a medic kit, opened it and found the scissors. With speed and efficiency, he cut off the shirt so he could properly address the wound.

He put on gloves and gently touched around the wound to assess how deep it was and where the edges were. The knife had gone through some muscle but the bleeding appeared to have mostly stopped. The wound was at least several hours old.

John finally looked up at Sherlock's face and winced when he saw the bruise forming on his cheek. But Sherlock did not appear to be in pain. Instead he was studying John carefully.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was low and rough. "I always cause you pain."

John sat up and reached into his medical kit to take out iodine, a needle and suture thread. "That's because you're always leaving."

Sherlock didn't speak again, and John cleaned, sutured and dressed the wound in silence. While he had sewn up more people than he could count throughout his career, this time he found himself having to pause and steady himself. This was Sherlock, his skin and his muscle, and with a little more force in a different spot, the knife would have bled him out. It was too close.

When he was done, John helped Sherlock get up and sit in a chair. John washed the dried blood off his chest and side, then he went to his dresser and brought out one of his jumpers.

"This will be too small for you, obviously, but I don't have any of your clothes here, sorry," he said as he handed it to Sherlock and then sat on the edge of his chair.

"So. You were about to tell me what really matters."

Sherlock looked at John, and a small smile crept to his lips. He looked at the jumper and rolled his eyes and set it aside. He walked to John's bed, grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"I know who your assassin is," he said and gingerly sat at the head of the bed, his back against a pillow.

John walked over and sat at the end of the bed to listen.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock continued. "His name had surfaced in several places, but the man I chased last night works for Moran and confirmed his name. Before he stabbed me and got away, that is."

John could see Sherlock was more than just annoyed by this. He seemed deeply troubled.

"You know what this means, of course," Sherlock said.

"They know that you're alive," John replied.

Sherlock looked at John, and for the first time since they had been reunited, John saw real fear in his eyes.

"Yes, and now you are their next target."


	14. Texts from an Empty Flat

Greg Lestrade had a similar reaction as John did at seeing Sherlock for the first time, although he seemed to skip the screaming part and head right for the face punching. After John had stitched up Sherlock, they agreed the game had changed and it was time to bring in Lestrade. Sherlock had a plan, but it was going to take help from the police to make it work.

John called Greg and asked him to come over to his flat, and when he arrived, Sherlock was sitting on the bed wrapped in a blanket. Greg looked like he was about to have a heart attack, and John went to make the man sit down when the shouting started.

"How the … What the...!" Greg bellowed, looking bewildered. "You died!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Apparently not."

Greg's incredulousness seemed to switch to anger and he started to move towards him, but John grabbed his arm and held him back.

"I already punched him, Greg," he said with a dry look. "And then it turned out he had been stabbed and was a bloody mess, so... it wasn't quite as gratifying as I'd hoped."

Greg let John guide him to a chair, and he eventually calmed as Sherlock told the story. John realised this was the first time he had actually heard the full story from Sherlock's lips, and as the tale unfolded, he felt increasingly sullen. John had his arms folded and his lips pressed together, unable to look at Sherlock while he talked. Sherlock described in a cool tone how he had jumped from the building, landed on a truck driven by Molly Hooper and had faked his death using an old magician's trick of putting a rubber ball in his armpit to slow the flow of blood to his arm. He paused, and John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. Yes, that little trick was entirely for John's benefit. John stood up and walked to the window.

"John," Sherlock said, and when John didn't respond, he continued with a sharper tone. "Step away from the window, please."

John felt a shock of realisation run through his body and he took an involuntary step back, then nervously looked through the window for hidden assailants. It finally hit him the situation he was in and that his life was actually in danger. He looked at Sherlock and saw the dread etched into his face. Sherlock had been living with this for much longer than John, who had just become aware of the threat on his life a few days ago. He took an unsteady breath and sat back down away from the window.

Sherlock turned to Greg and continued his story - although John noted it was a highly revised version in which the only assassin was Moran, who was assigned to John. He neglected to mention the extent of Moriarty's web or the fact that Sherlock had systematically hunted down everyone else. John didn't like it, didn't like any of this. Sherlock seemed to lie so easily to the people who were closest to him. But he reluctantly let Sherlock take the lead and let him do it his way. For now.

Once Lestrade had been brought up to date, Sherlock asked for his help.

"As you can see, we have a situation in which it would be helpful to have police support," Sherlock said. "If we can capture Moran in the act of trying to... to attack John, then we will be able to both catch a killer and..."

Sherlock hesitated. "... restore my name, if he talks."

Greg had been sitting quietly and listening to Sherlock talk, looking concerned and thoughtful. After Sherlock finished his story, Greg looked up at John.

"How are you coping with all of this?" he asked.

John looked at Greg, feeling the full weight of the question. Things were moving so quickly and he was in mortal danger, and yet he hadn't felt this alive in a very long time. He absent-mindedly twisted the ring on his finger.

"I'll be ok," he said. "Let's just get this over with."

Sherlock and Greg then laid out a plan to have around-the-clock surveillance on the entire block, with an undercover detail for John when he went out. They would give John a panic alarm and have him wear a ballistic vest under his clothes, which would be a little bulky but was a necessity in the circumstances.

While Greg was laying out details for setting up John's protection, John received a text. Sherlock carefully eyed John as he took out his phone.

_We found it. MH_

John put his head back and took a breath of relief. Now Sherlock squinted his eyes slightly and was looking at him with suspicion. John bit his lip and responded to the text.

_Can you bring it around? I want to wait until Greg leaves before I give it to Sherlock._

_Understood._

He put his phone back into his pocket.

"You got a text," Sherlock said matter of factly when there was a pause in the conversation.

"Yes," John said. "Mycroft."

That appeared to do nothing to alleviate Sherlock's suspicion, but he did not pursue it. The three finalised their plans and Greg phoned in his orders.

"We should assume that Moran will move quickly," Sherlock said. "Perhaps... I should stay here with John."

But Greg shook his head.

"I don't like this any more than you do, Sherlock, but if you really want to draw him out, that means John's going to have to do it alone," he said, and turned to John. "But this is up to you. Are you sure about doing this, John? You could always go into protection."

John hated the idea of staying in hiding. There was no way he could do that.

"No, this is the right plan," he said, and then looked at Sherlock. "We can do this."

Greg nodded and then got up to leave. He said that he would let John know as soon as the police were in place, but until then he shouldn't leave the flat. John agreed.

After Greg left, Sherlock got off the bed. It seemed his nervous impatience had returned was overtaking any pain he was feeling in his shoulder. He shrugged off the blanket and walked over to the jumper John had offered. He put it on, with his jacket on over.

"Where are you going?" John said, disappointed to have Sherlock leave so soon.

Sherlock looked to John and then walked over to where he was standing. John was noticing a pattern of Sherlock standing just a little too close. He was starting to get used to the racing of his heart.

"Give me your key. I'll be back. There's something I have to do," Sherlock said. When John gave him a worried look, Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "It shouldn't take long."

John nodded reluctantly and handed him the key and then stood watching as Sherlock left. He rubbed his wrist and then looked around his flat. Alone again.

He went to his wardrobe and dug out his gun, which had been buried on a shelf. He checked the clip and then sat at the table and expertly began to clean the weapon. About 20 minutes later, he got a text from Mycroft. Since he'd agreed not to leave the flat, he told Mycroft to use the back entrance to the building and come up. Mycroft knocked on the door a few minutes later and John let him in. He was holding Sherlock's violin.

"Thank God," John said. "Where did you find it?"

"It turns out my brother is not entirely stupid, even in a drug-addled state," Mycroft said. "He sold it to an antique dealer who knew its value, and the man had not yet found a buyer."

John rubbed his hands over the case. Mycroft had told him that when he started to suspect Sherlock had begun using drugs again, Mycroft had cut him off from his regular flow of cash. John tried not to imagine the state Sherlock must have been in to make him need to pawn his violin.

"Thank you, Mycroft," he said. "I'm sure you know how much this will mean to Sherlock."

Mycroft gave John a measured look, as if weighing something.

"John, I hope you know that Sherlock thought he was doing the right thing. He sometimes has the mind of a child, but the thought of you in danger was not something he could abide. No matter what the costs."

John nodded his understanding, but he could not agree with it. In John's mind, Sherlock would always be wrong in this. It was the wrong decision to leave John behind. It would always be the wrong decision. He was unsure that Sherlock would ever understand that, however.

"Thanks again for doing this," John said.

"Think nothing of it. And John, please be careful," Mycroft said and then left.

John closed the door, took the violin and carefully placed it under his bed. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face and thought. After a few minutes, he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, staring at his own face for a long time. He took off his ring and put inside the medicine cabinet. He then got out a pair of scissors and started to cut off his beard. When it was as short as he could get it, he took out his shaving kit. He was halfway through shaving when he heard the door.

"John?" he heard Sherlock ask quietly.

"I'm in here," he said and then continued shaving. He felt Sherlock walk to the bathroom door and stand for a second before leaning against the doorframe to watch. John was highly conscious of Sherlock's eyes on him, but he concentrated on what he was doing and continued shaving in silence until his face was smooth. While he was rinsing his face, he felt Sherlock move to stand behind him. John patted his face with a towel and then stood looking at himself and Sherlock in the mirror. He started to feel a little dizzy seeing both of them there standing together, with Sherlock's serious face searching his own. He had spent so many mornings looking in the mirror and wondering if he would make it through another day that it made his insides ache to see the two of them now, standing together.

Sherlock reached up and John watched with fascination as he gently ran the back of his fingers along John's chin. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the dizziness increase tenfold at the feel of Sherlock's fingers, and then opened them again. He was not surprised to see the emotion on his own face. Sherlock stepped a little closer and John watched as Sherlock bent down slightly to his ear.

"This suits you," he said, and brushed John's chin with his hand. He then reached down and lightly stroked John's fingers on his left hand - and then gave a small smile. Of course he would notice. He noticed everything.

"I have something for you," John said and then turned around and returned Sherlock's smile. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him curiously, and then followed John out of the bathroom. John reached under the bed and pulled out Sherlock's violin. When Sherlock saw the violin, his smile slowly faded and he put his hand on the bed as if to steady himself. He sank down to sit and then looked up at John's face. He looked so lost that it made John want to wrap his arms around him. Instead, he sat down and put the violin in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock tentatively opened the case and gently ran his fingers over the strings.

"I..." he started to say, but seemed at a loss for words. John rested his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Never again, Sherlock," he said. "Next time, find another way."

Sherlock slowly nodded his head, closed the case and held it close to his chest.

"Thank you," he said.

"Thank Mycroft," John said and looked at him pointedly. "Mycroft found it."

Sherlock's cheek twitched but he nodded again. John chuckled, and then heard his phone beep. He checked.

"It's Greg. The police are in place." He looked up at Sherlock again and sighed. "I suppose you should go."

Sherlock stood. "I won't be going far," he said. "I just acquired an empty flat across the street. I'll be able to watch from there." He reached up and touched John's hair. "This will be over soon. Then we can move on."

He leaned down and kissed the top of John's head and left John alone with the sound of his own heart.

* * *

_Bored_.

It was the evening, and John had been lying in bed trying to read when his phone buzzed. He read the text and chuckled.

_Of course you're bored. You're by yourself in an empty flat._

_I hate waiting._

_Patience has never been one of your strengths, Sherlock, _John texted, and then thought and added with a sigh, _Why don't you play your violin?_

After a few moments, Sherlock replied. _Open your window._

John smiled, turned off the light and walked to his window and reached carefully through the closed curtains to open it. The wind was blowing cold and the lights from the street cast shadows around the room. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers around him. Everyday sounds of the city drifted up from the street, and he could hear laughter of a couple passing below. Then very quietly, he heard a long stirring note that seemed to come from the very air itself. John held his breath. He could hear the strings vibrate as the sound grew, became stronger, less tentative. The sound of longing filled the air, and it seemed that the whole city slowly stopped to listen to the sounds coming from Sherlock's open window. The sound filled the air and entered John's body. It was like Sherlock was speaking to him in some private, forgotten language. He was sitting on his bed, barely breathing and holding as still as he could, as if to keep the spell from breaking.

Sherlock played for a long time, singing a lullaby that pulled John along in its stream. When the sound finally stopped with a note that lingered long after the sound died, the very air in the room seemed changed. John took several deep breaths. He wiped his cheeks and reached for his phone. He lay back on his bed, feeling light headed and unable to catch his breath. He wanted to tell Sherlock how moving the music was, how he'd never heard anything as beautiful, how much he'd missed it and thought of it in the past year. He started to type, hoping to put into words how the music made him feel.

_I love you._

He stared at the words on his phone and felt the world become perfectly still. It was the only thing that he could think to say, the only words that could possibly describe how it felt. But he didn't press send. Even though he had known with a stark clarity since the day he saw Sherlock fall that he was in love with him, he hadn't actually said the words out loud. He hadn't really faced this clarity since Sherlock was back, either. He thought of the look of desire he'd seen on Sherlock's face when they had stood outside the ruined flat and of the reaction his body had as it was pulled into Sherlock's intense gravity, and he knew there was no sense in denying how he felt. He hadn't denied how he felt in a long time. The experiences of the past year and a half had made it clear just how important Sherlock was to him, and he had come to terms with it.

And yet, he couldn't press send. He put the phone against his chest and felt his heart pounding through his shirt.

His phone buzzed.

_Thank you, John. I did not think I would hold my violin again._

John's chest ached. All he could think was how much he had missed Sherlock, missed everything about him. Missed his insomnia and his brilliance, his social ineptitude and his tantrums. He had missed Sherlock's passion, which seemed to overwhelm everything else in the world and create a black void of nothingness when he was not there. The world had no meaning to John when Sherlock wasn't there.

So why did he struggle so much to tell him how he felt? He was nearly certain that Sherlock knew. He must know.

Another text from Sherlock came through.

_Have you fallen asleep?_

John erased his initial message. _The music was breathtaking. I don't even know how to describe it._

_It did seem to sing tonight. It's because it was singing for you._

The ache was nearly unbearable. _I wish you were here._

It took Sherlock a long time to text him back. _I wish to be nowhere else in the world but with you, John._

John closed his eyes. This would have to resolve itself soon. He didn't think his heart could take it much longer.


	15. An Open Window

Sherlock woke with a start. He was sitting against the wall, facing the open windows with his violin case clutched in his arms. Something had woken him. A sudden sound.

He quickly set down the violin and ran crouching to the window. John's flat was dark and his window was open with the curtain blowing in the light breeze. He should have made John close his window, and how did he manage to fall asleep? What was wrong with him? Sherlock berated himself. Stupid, halfwitted, vacuous...

He strained to hear another sound, another hint as to what it was that had woken him. The street was quiet. It was very early in the morning. Everything was eerily still. Suddenly he heard a loud thump and then John yell.

Sherlock was running out of the flat. He ran down the stairs and burst out onto the street just in time to watch Lestrade disappear inside John's building. He sprinted across the street and just as he reached the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

"John!" he yelled and leapt up the stairs. He ran through the open door in time to see Lestrade struggling with a large man dressed in black. Sherlock did not think. With one fluid movement, he grabbed the man's arm, spun around and smashed his elbow into the man's face. He felt the man's nose crunch, and it was enough to loosen the assailant's grip on Lestrade, who spun out of his grasp and pointed his gun at the intruder.

"Drop to the ground, now!" Lestrade yelled. But the man tried to swing his gun around to aim at the detective inspector. Sherlock lunged at him, grabbed the gun from the side, pushed the man's elbow with his other hand and twisted the gun out of his grasp. Lestrade then punched the man in the face, and the intruder finally fell to the floor and raised up his hands. As Lestrade moved to turn the man over, two more officers rushed into the room to Lestrade's aid.

Sherlock looked for John and saw him lying on the floor next to the bed, clutching his chest.

"John! John, have you been shot?"

"I'm alright," John said and tried to sit up. Sherlock ran to him, put the gun on the floor and quickly searched John's arms and chest with his hands. He tore open John's shirt to reveal the bulletproof vest, which had a noticeable dent where the bullet had struck. He put his finger in the hole to make sure that it hadn't passed through, and then looked up to John's face.

"Bloody thing was uncomfortable to sleep in, but it turned out not to be such a bad idea," John said, and then put his head back, trying to catch his breath.

Suddenly Sherlock's hands were on John's face and in his hair and then Sherlock's mouth was everywhere. Sherlock had John's head between his hands and he was kissing his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth over and over.

"Sherlo-," John tried to speak, but he found that his throat had closed and his voice had stopped working. Without thinking he reached for Sherlock's face and pulled him into a deep kiss, suddenly overwhelmed with all the pain and suffering and longing from the past two years. He was shaking from the adrenaline and from the force of the kiss, but Sherlock held him steady, clutched John to him and kissed him until everything else had disappeared. After a few moments, they pulled away slightly, both men breathing hard and searching each other's faces. John slowly became aware of his surroundings again and realised there were other people in the room. Moving only his eyes, he glanced over to Lestrade, who had his gun still pointed at Moran but was staring at John and Sherlock with his mouth wide open.

John looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock's face was flushed and intense, with his lips slightly swollen and his eyes burning. It made it nearly impossible to pull away. But John grabbed Sherlock's hands and gently pulled them from his face.

"We can continue this later," he said quietly. "We still have a suspect lying on the floor."

Sherlock ignored the comment and moved his face closer. He had a predatory look, and he pulled their hands to his chest.

"Lestrade can take care of that," he said in a low voice.

"And... everyone is staring at us," John said.

Sherlock pressed John's hands against his chest.

"Let them stare."

John was finding it difficult to breath.

"And I think this bullet knocked the wind out of me."

Sherlock smiled sideways. "Now you're just trying to distract me."

"Um... I'm really not sure," he said. "I … seem to be having a hard time breathing though."

Sherlock slowly sat back, but he kept John's hands clasped to his chest.

"Do you think you need to go to hospital?" he asked.

"No, I just need to get this vest off."

Sherlock helped John off the floor and onto the bed. He opened John's vest, and John took a deep breath of relief and then looked down at a huge bruise that was starting to form on his left side, just below the nipple. He lifted his arm.

"I don't think the ribs are broken, but there wouldn't be much they could do for me even if they were," he said, and then looked back at Sherlock, who was kneeling in front of him, clutching John's thighs. "I'll be ok."

As he said this, the paramedics came in through the door and were directed to John. Sherlock backed away as the medical professionals went to assess him, and when it appeared that John was in good hands - and also unavailable for the moment - he turned to look at Lestrade. The detective inspector had Moran on the floor and was cuffing him. Sherlock walked over and knelt down to look Moran in the eyes.

"You've been a hard man to find," Sherlock said.

"And you were dead," Moran said gruffly.

Lestrade hauled him off the floor to hand him over to two officers.

"We'll be talking again soon," Sherlock said, but Moran just winked.

"We'll see," Moran said over his shoulder as he was led away between the two officers. Lestrade walked up next to Sherlock as he watched Moran walk away.

"Well, that went better than we could have hoped," he said. Sherlock looked at the detective inspector, who was watching him with a jovial, teasing smile, and then he turned to look at John on the other side of the room. John was being asked questions by the paramedics, who were taking his blood pressure and examining the bruise on his ribs. But John was watching Sherlock and did not appear to be listening or even aware of the paramedics. When their eyes met, John parted his lips slightly.

Sherlock smiled.

"Yes. Brilliant."

* * *

**Epilogue**

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom at 221b Baker Street fully dressed and with head full of dark chestnut curls. This was the first time John had seen Sherlock with dark hair since they had been reunited, and the sight made him double-take and then drop his newspaper to his lap.

The man was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe it. John smiled.

"It suits you."

"My hair? Do you like it?" Sherlock said earnestly and walked to the living room to look in the mirror.

John laughed and shook his head.

"Probably not as much as you do."

Sherlock admired himself in the mirror, pushing back a stray curl and straightening his jacket. John rolled his eyes and returned to his paper.

"No point in keeping it blond," Sherlock said absentmindedly. "Now that my blogger is back in action, making me famous again. How many views so far?"

John didn't bother to look up. "Last I'd checked it was more than 5,000 on the blog and..." John winced "... about 30,000 on the YouTube video."

"Ha! Excellent!" Sherlock said, pleased. "That should bring in some good clients. I think we're ready for a case again, don't you? Maybe we should expand, start taking more European clients. Take a trip to Prague?"

Sherlock dropped onto the couch next to John and bounced his leg. John sighed and tried to concentrate on his paper.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock said and started reading over his shoulder.

John put down the paper and looked at Sherlock. He tried to be annoyed, but Sherlock was in such an exuberant mood that it made it difficult.

"Not really," he said with a small smile. Sherlock looked at John's face, his eyes lingering on his cheeks and his mouth, then he leaned forward spontaneously and kissed John firmly on the lips. John held his breath. It was going to take him awhile to get used to this.

Sherlock pulled away.

"Vypadáš nádherně," he said. "A já tě miluju."

"Pardon?"

"Perhaps we should go to Prague regardless. I've been reading and I think I might have a lead on the murder of Good King Wenceslas."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Or we could just stay here and I could take you to bed for three days," Sherlock said. After a moment, he squinted his eyes at John. "John, are you blushing?"

Sherlock didn't get an answer. John stood up and led them both back to bed. They didn't leave for three days.

_The End_

* * *

_Author's note: Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of the readers, reviewers, favoriters and followers. Knowing that you all were reading was inspirational, and I'm going to miss this story._


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